Forgive Me
by TheReturned
Summary: Original Oneshot, now being continued. Sherlock asks John to forgive him in the tube carriage. What follows surprises them both. Alternative ending to The Empty Hearse. Johnlock. (Updated Summary)
1. Chapter 1

**A oneshot that popped into my head last night, and I had to write it down. I would imagine the idea has probably already been done in some way before, but it's my take on how the tube carriage scene could possibly have gone. Follows The Empty Hearse episode up to a point. ****For those who are following my first fanfic, I promise that will be updated very soon. **

**Reviews are lovely, as always. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

><p>"Oh my God!"<p>

John started pacing angrily, terrified, not wanting to think about the implications of Sherlock's outburst. "I can't." But he could, couldn't he? There was nothing that his friend couldn't do. That was the amazing thing about him. He would save them, he absolutely would save them.

He could hear Sherlock scrabbling away at the bomb, muttering to himself, and a seed of hope planted itself in Dr Watson's brain. He was still trying. There must have been something tucked away in his Mind Palace, something that he could try. John thought briefly of Mary: wonderful, supportive Mary. Beautiful woman, who had saved him from the sadness his life had become when this idiot of a friend of his had faked his death. Mary had rescued him, loved him, brought him back to a semblance of normality. He had begun to enjoy life again. He had wanted to propose to her - god, he'd still not got round to that after that dick had ruined their romantic meal. Why was he here, again? Why had he followed him down into his darkened world, why had he jumped at the chance of another adventure so soon after nearly being torched to death by god knows who...

He slowly turned back to face his friend, just as Sherlock lifted his face up to meet him, panic and sorrow etched across his features. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

John stared at him, then rolled his neck, exasperated. Screwed his eyes tightly shut. This wasn't happening, was it? "What?"

"I can't... I can't do it, John," Sherlock continued, his face whiter than ever, if such a thing was possible. It was almost definitely the first time John had ever seen Sherlock look scared, unless he counted that time on the roof... he had been too far away to make out, but John had heard the nerves in his voice. But then, that was put on, maybe. So... could this be too?

His hope was shattered with Sherlock's next utterance. "I don't know how."

John stared at him in horror as Sherlock shifted his position slightly. He was aware of Sherlock saying something else, and shook his head. "What?" he breathed, not really wanting to hear anything else that his friend had to say now, unless it was "Oh! Wait a minute, I *do* know how to diffuse a massive bomb. I was only teasing".

But no, it wasn't that. "Please, John. Forgive me, for all the hurt that I caused you."

No. This wasn't happening. Sherlock never apologised, never asked for forgiveness. "No no no no no. This is a trick-"

"No-"

"Another one of your bloody tricks!"

"No..."

"You're just trying to make me say something nice."

Sherlock smiled sadly at that, and John gasped as he replied "Not this time."

He was clutching at straws now. "It's just to make you look good even though you've behaved like a..." It finally dawned on him. An acceptance, in a way, that this was actually happening. He knew there wouldn't be much time left; last time he'd checked, the clock was on about a minute and a half, and that must have been a good 30 seconds previous. And he knew he had to do this, for both of them.

Sherlock shifted into a seated position, and John stared at him, allowing all his feelings from that day, _that day, _to come forth. Forgetting Mary for now, he focussed on Sherlock, on how heartbroken he had been, how terrified he'd felt knowing that he'd never be able to see, speak or listen to his wise, infuriating, beautiful friend ever again. He remembered how broken he was for days, weeks, months after that event. Feelings he'd buried deep suddenly surfaced, feelings he still wasn't completely sure about. Feelings that had confused him but feelings that he knew would be no good visiting now that his friend was dead. And what was the point now, either, when they were both going to die?

Exhaling sharply, John glared at Sherlock. "I wanted you to not be dead!"

"Yes, well, be careful what you wish for," Sherlock replied, bitterly. John snorted, despite everything.

"If I hadn't come back, you wouldn't be standing there," Sherlock continued, and John noted just how guilty Sherlock looked, how much sorrow and sadness was evident in his face. John felt a pang of sympathy for his friend, and found himself wanting to hug him.

"You'd still have a future... with Mary-"

"Yeah, I know!" John snapped, not sure why. Sherlock had brought Mary back to the front of his mind, and John felt chastised, as if Sherlock somehow knew that she wasn't his main concern, that she wasn't the person on his mind in his final moments.

But Sherlock wasn't looking accusing. He looked absolutely devastated. And he was waiting, John could tell, for some sort of forgiveness from him. John breathed in sharply and moved away slightly, trying to collect his thoughts. That bomb must be going off soon...

"Look, I find it difficult, I find this sort of stuff difficult, all right?" he said breathlessly. Sherlock nodded, not looking at him, staring at the floor as John noticed, to his horror, a tear falling. Sherlock never cried.

Then he did look up at him. "I know". And suddenly, as he stared into John's eyes, everything made sense.

John took a step towards him, his eyes still locked on Sherlock's. There was an added tension in the carriage, and the bomb was almost forgotten as he felt lost in the sharp blue-grey tones of Sherlock's irises. He had to tell him. What did he have to lose?

"Sherlock..." he breathed, inching closer to him again. "You were the best and wisest man I've ever known. Of course I forgive you. I know why you did... what you did. And I forgive you for this too," he said, breaking the gaze to motion around them, point at the bomb under the floor, though refusing to look at it properly, this object that would damn them both. "Because... I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked momentarily stunned. "You... You love me."

"What's the harm in telling you now? Of course I love you. I refused to examine how I felt when you... when you left, when I realised then that my feelings for you were... different to what I had thought... and then when you came back, I had Mary! I was happy! It was different, but I was content and everything was calm. So much calmer than with you. But now... now that this... I can tell you, because what does it matter? We're going to die, she'll never know any different... Sherlock, I really do love you. I'm sorry, I'm probably going to make you feel uncomfortable as hell in your dying moments, but I love you, and that's... that" he finished uncomfortably, realising how garbled his impromptu speech had probably sounded, as Sherlock continued to stare at him. The look in his eye had changed, from one of desperation, guilt and sorrow, to one of burning intensity.

"Sherl... I'm sorry if I've... hang on, shouldn't the..."

Sherlock moved quicker than John even thought possible - and he'd seen him chase after criminals at breakneck speed - and suddenly John felt himself pressed up against the carriage door, hands all over him, soft lips pressing at his, kissing him urgently and hurriedly. All thoughts melted away as John returned the kisses, wrapping his arms around his friend before letting them rise slowly until they reached Sherlock's dark curls, plunging his hands into his friend's hair and gripping tight. He'd practically forgotten about their impending doom as he let himself get lost in the moment.

Until..

"John," Sherlock whispered, resting his forehead against John's and staring at him intently. "There's an off switch."

A stare. Then John pushed him away. Took one stride towards the bomb. Stared at the bright red numbers flickering between 1.28 and 1.29. Then stared back at Sherlock.

"You... cock," he growled, as Sherlock's face erupted into a huge grin.

"Oh my god," breathed Sherlock.

"I am actually going to kill you, you know that?"


	2. Chapter 2

**I decided to continue my one-shot - I know, I'm just _soooo _changeable. Hope you like. Review or favourite if you do and I will be a happy bunny.**

* * *

><p>Of <em>course <em>Sherlock had known how to stop a bomb going off. Of _course _he'd phoned the police - even he wasn't that ridiculous. As John had caught the flashes of the torches bouncing off the walls of the underground tunnel, he mentally shook himself, wondering how he had ever thought that they were genuinely in mortal peril. Sherlock wouldn't come back from the dead, after two years away, only to immediately blow himself and his friend up.

With huge effort, John attempted pushed all thoughts of what had just occurred between them to the back of his mind, and he was grateful to note that Sherlock appeared to have done the same - or probably just deleted them completely, he thought ruefully. However, now was not the time to consider what any of that had meant - the fact that Sherlock had kissed him, when he'd _known all along that the bomb wasn't going off... _Stop it, stop it right now, he told himself angrily, and, with one last look at the flickering red numbers, made his way to the door of the tube carriage, leaving Sherlock crouched down, inspecting the bomb carefully.

* * *

><p>"They got him then," John said, as the pair of them made their way back to Baker Street, sitting next to each other in the back of a taxi. An uncomfortable silence had fallen between them since they had left the station, and John was desperate to fill it with any form of random prattling that he could. "Moran, I mean."<p>

"It appears so," his friend drawled, staring out of the window and refusing to turn towards him.

John stared at his hands clasped on his lap, and blinked, thinking back over the last few hours. The panic he had felt when he'd been convinced that they were seconds from death, the absolute absence of any thoughts, other than superficial, towards Mary, and the outpouring of emotion towards his best friend. The shock when said friend had kissed him - that kiss had blown his mind - only to reach a higher register of amazement and... yes, terror, when he became aware that actually, they were not going to die, Sherlock had stopped the bomb and was in fact a complete and utter prat. A prat who had saved their lives, but a prat nonetheless.

Then there had been the conversation with the police, Lestrade asking them what on earth they thought they were doing heading down on their own, and the look on his face when Sherlock pointed out that if it hadn't been for them doing just that, there would be no more Houses of Parliament and possibly hundreds of MPs would have been blown to pieces...

"...so, in hindsight, maybe we should have just stayed at home..."

...which had resulted in a snort from John and a warning look from Greg. Then there had been the statements, a parting sarcastic comment, and they were on their way home. No, on their way to _Sherlock's _home. There had been a silent agreement that they would go back to Baker Street together, to discuss... well, who knew what.

"Here, please," Sherlock said suddenly and, as the cab pulled in, he jumped out, coat swirling behind him, leaving John to pay the fare.

"Some things never change," he grumbled to himself, leaning forward to hand the driver the fare before hopping out after the curly-haired git, as he was now referring to him in his head. Git. Cock. Arse. Prat. The list became more colourful as his thoughts whirled around in his head, and he refused to examine the part of his brain that was yearning to use somewhat kinder words to describe him.

Walking into the upstairs room, his eyes caught the sight of the detective stood at the window, violin in position on his shoulder, but he wasn't playing anything just yet. He was poised and ready, but he was staring, gazing out of the window at the world below him. John frowned, before habitually making his way to the kitchen and putting the kettle on, and he jolted as he realised that this was the first time he had done this in nearly two years. He'd arrived at the flat hours before, after being released from hospital, after surviving the bonfire... the bonfire that Sherlock (and Mary! And Mary! cried a small part of his conscious) had saved him from. A rescue that probably wouldn't have been necessary had Sherlock not returned, he reminded himself, but his thoughts rambled on.

He hadn't had a chance to speak to Sherlock properly about anything since he'd returned. Well, he'd had chances, but he'd refused to take them, having decided that ignoring his infuriating ex-flatmate was the best course of action, despite Mary's wheedling that he should text him, call him, pop round and see him. He smiled slightly to himself - if only she knew. He couldn't bear to see him, and when he'd dragged Mary into the cab that night, the night that Sherlock had turned his life upside-down all over again, he'd made a promise to himself that this wouldn't change anything. He still loved Mary, he would still marry her (when he eventually managed to propose to her), and everything would be absolutely fine. But the only way he could get through those first few days was to completely avoid Sherlock Holmes, eschew those thoughts that he'd managed to banish months before, and which were slowly creeping back, from his mind again. That's what he decided in the taxi.

He'd lasted a day, if that. He'd known he had to see Sherlock again, and soon. When he'd finished work, he made his way to Baker Street, running things over and over in his mind. He wasn't going to declare any undying love to him, but he had to see him, and he had to work out if he was going to be able to live with Sherlock in his life again, as a friend, as a close friend, while getting on with his life and marrying Mary. But someone had decided to interfere with that particular plan, inject him with some substance and bury him under a Guy.

So, aside from his brief "hey, how are you?" conversation with Sherlock earlier on, before they'd become completely sidetracked with the Sebastian Moran investigation, he hadn't spoken to his friend about anything of any importance in relation to _them_. Until...

He screwed his eyes tightly shut, as memories of his outburst in the tube carriage came flooding back, and Sherlock chose that exact moment to drag the bow across his beloved violin, producing the most horrific sound John could imagine coming from the instrument.

"Jeeeesus Christ, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, picking up the jar of sugar he had just knocked off the worktop which miraculously, somehow, had not broken. "What the hell was that for?!"

"My mind, it's too _cluttered_," Sherlock growled in frustration. "Everything should be neat and orderly, stowed away, but it's not! It's an absolute mess!"

John bit his lip and quickly set about making them both tea, his go-to method for calming any situation down. Normally Sherlock would feel exhilarated after a case was solved, at least for a few hours afterwards, and he had a hunch he knew why this wasn't the case this time. Maybe he hadn't deleted any events from over the last few hours.

Sherlock had thrown himself onto his armchair, sprawled backwards, arms splayed out either side over each arm, still clutching his violin in one hand and the long bow in the other. His eyes were open, his mouth was fixed in a hard line, and John was unsure whether he was in his Mind Palace or not. It sounded like it needed a little tidying up, and he didn't really want to disturb him and set him off again.

Setting his tea beside him on the coffee table, wondering if it was likely to get drunk before it went cold, he nervously settled himself into the armchair opposite, briefly struck at how comfortable and normal this felt, despite not having sat in this manner, opposite his friend, for two long years. It felt like shrugging on an old, well-loved coat - safe, secure and comforting. He briefly considered phoning Mary to let her know that he was okay, in case she'd heard the news, but decided to text her instead, reaching into his pocket for his mobile to send the quick message. He didn't trust himself to speak to her just now, scared that she would detect a change in his voice.

Having sent the text, careful to keep it as natural as possible, and not forgetting the kisses - which made him feel like _such _a dick - he glanced up at his mad companion, still hardly daring to believe that he was actually _not dead. _The man he loved, he thought grimly, unable to stop the thoughts but hating himself that little bit more.

"Sherlock?" he whispered, taking in the vacant stare, briefly allowing himself the luxury of appreciating the beauty of his eyes, those eyes that he'd thought he'd never see again, letting his gaze drag down slightly to his defined cheekbones (more defined than before - Sherlock really hadn't been looking after himself while he'd been away, unsurprisingly) and then up again, past his eyes, to his hair, dark and windswept, remembering how his fingers had threaded through those thick curls, soft lips against his...

No response. Definite Mind Palace.

"You do whatever you need to do, Sherlock," he mumbled, grabbing his own tea and trying hard to think straight - pardon the pun, he thought to himself, wincing at his subconscious trying to make light of what was likely to be an horrific situation. "I'll be here when you want to talk."


	3. Chapter 3

**Am fine, in case you've seen the news. Need to get a few things sorted with Sherlock. Will be back later. Love you xxx**

Mary read the text twice, smiled to herself and then pocketed her phone. She was delighted that things seemed to be getting back on track between the two men, and if John was willingly spending time with his friend then that could only be a good thing. Curious about his text, she turned on the news channel, and was immediately confronted with a looping video of Greg, several other policemen and John and Sherlock emerging from the tube station. Both men looked in shock - understandable, given the breaking news headline she could see rolling underneath the video. Must have been terrifying, especially for John after two years of relative normality.

What she couldn't help but notice was that John was clutching Sherlock's arm tightly, and Sherlock's head was cocked to one side, almost protectively. It was kind of sweet, Mary thought at first. Then she looked harder as the video repeated over and over again. A low feeling of dread eased through her chest, and she could feel herself going cold.

Then she shook herself out of it, and switched off the television. The boys had just had an awful experience. They were both feeling vulnerable. That was surely all it was.

* * *

><p><em>He's back in the tube carriage. Alone. He glances around, taking everything in, desperate for some clue as to where to go from here.<em>

_Ah no, not alone. There he is, sat in one of the blue patterned seats, umbrella held firm between his legs._

_"Is it not enough that I have to tolerate you in reality?" he groans. "Why must you always keep popping up in here? I really should put a 'No Mycroft' sign on the front door."_

_"Charming, as ever," his brother drawls, rising from his seat. "I am your voice of reason, Sherlock, you must have worked that out by now. I am an integral part of your... mind palace," he finishes, a distasteful look skimming over his eyes._

_Sherlock shakes his head, surveying the carriage again, and is unsurprised to see a vision of John appear, staring at him, eyes panicked but, in a strange way, resigned to his fate. Exactly how he looked when he was declaring his love for him._

_"He's blurting it out because he thinks he has seconds to live," Sherlock mutters._

_"Yees," says Mycroft, lifting his umbrella and inspecting the tip, a bored expression on his face._

_"So he maybe didn't mean it, maybe he felt it necessary to make me feel good in my dying moments, briefly think that someone care for me?"_

_Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Or?"_

_"Or..." Sherlock pauses. "Or he truly meant it... but how could he, he's with Mary, they're getting engaged..."_

_"Because..."_

_Sherlock closes his eyes. "Because he wants to?"_

_"Sherlock, your lack of egotism in cases of the heart astounds me, purely because it is so evident in every other part of your life." Mycroft steps towards him. "Is it really so difficult to believe that another human being could care for you, could love you?"_

_"Sentiment is a chemical defect found only in the losing side, you told me this yourself!"_

_"And I meant it," Mycroft drawls. They are suddenly on top of St Barts, looking down at John, his face contorted in panic. Sherlock watches as another version of himself falls from the roof, sees in minute detail the shock, pain and horror flooding through John, watches as he runs to the body lying on the floor, and winces as he witnesses John collapsed on the pavement, tears streaking down his face._

_"I believe, in a way, John lost that day. As did you, brother dear."_

_Exhaling noisily, Sherlock and Mycroft return to the carriage. "He lost me. He thought he would never see me again. So he meets Mary, falls in love..."_

_"Or so he thinks. Maybe."_

_Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. "And then he's confronted with me. In the restaurant. And... he hits me? That's not a sign of love, is it?"_

_Mycroft shrugs. "Just maybe, in those seconds, everything he'd believed for the last two years turned out to be a lie. Maybe he realised that he needn't have ever met Mary, needn't have prepared to propose. And maybe the horror of the situation he found himself in... caused him to lash out?"_

_Sherlock nods. It sounds like the sort of thing John might do. Punch first, ask questions later..._

_"And now we're here, and John had seconds to live, and there is something within him that yearns to declare the truth, knowing that it will never hurt anyone else, no one will ever know..."_

_It seems the most logical conclusion. Sherlock sinks down into a seat behind him, the vision of John vanishing. Burying his head in his hands, he feels Mycroft's presence in front of him._

_"So what do I do now?" he whispers._

_Mycroft kneels down. "John finds himself in an awkward position," Mycroft says, as Sherlock raises his head to stare at him. "You must support him in whatever he decides. It is not his fault that you returned and destroyed his idea of a safe, contented future. You must not be selfish, you must think of what is best for him."_

_"What is best for him is to be with me. He said he loved me-"_

_"And he will have said the same to Mary, you can be sure of it. His head will be all over the place, and you must wait. You must not force him to make a decision. He will not thank you for it."_

_"How long must I wait?"_

_"As long as it takes. And with no guarantee of a happy ending for either of you." Mycroft sighs. "This is why I do not go in for sentiment myself, Sherlock."_

* * *

><p>"You have a place in that mind palace of yours for emotional stuff then?"<p>

Sherlock couldn't help but smile as he darted around the kitchen, searching for a clean knife. Spending time in his Mind Palace always made him feel a little hungry, and he was desperate for some toast, only every knife seemed to have been used up without being cleaned in the last... day. This was why he needed John back, he thought to himself, before resigning himself to the fate of doing some washing up.

"A drawer."

John chuckled. "Just one drawer, in a whole palace?"

"It wasn't even that, before I met you."

A silence, and Sherlock cursed inwardly at saying such a ridiculously sentimental sentence, but when he dared to glance over at John, he saw a slight smile twitching the corner of his mouth.

"Well that's... good to know, Sherlock."

The sink filled, slowly.

"May I ask what exactly you were doing in there?"

Sherlock turned off the taps and clenched his eyes shut. "Having an excruciatingly annoying chat with my brother, as it turns out. I'm considering hiring a bouncer for my palace."

John nodded, still smirking a little, and stared at his hands, vaguely listening to the sounds of Sherlock actually doing some housework. It briefly astounded him, but his mind soon wandered to other matters, realising that his banter with Sherlock had merely been a distraction from considering the implications of what had happened between them hours earlier. He also knew there was a fair chance he wouldn't be able to think about anything objectively while only a few feet away from his friend.

"You're going to get some air," Sherlock said, as if able to read his mind - which, John admitted to himself, he probably could.

He eased himself up. "Yeah," he said apologetically. "I have some thinking to do, in all honesty, and I have a feeling I should probably be alone while I do it."

Sherlock nodded, his back facing John, still busying himself with the dishes.

John hesitated, then took a couple of steps towards Sherlock, entering the kitchen and resting his hand on the table. "Look, Sherlock, before I go, I need to know something."

The detective sighed, putting a glass on the draining board and then turning slowly to the doctor, fixing him with a gaze that John could not read. Before he had a chance to say anything, Sherlock began talking.

"I cannot tell you what to do, John," he said quietly, not letting his gaze drop even slightly. "But I can tell you that whatever decision you make, I will either support or willingly, happily accept. I... understand how hard this has all been for you, and how difficult it is likely to become. But I will wait, as long as it takes."

John felt rather startled. His selfish, possessive friend was being as selfless as he'd ever known him to be. He tried hard not to acknowledge the warm feeling that pooled in his stomach when Sherlock had confirmed, in his own way, that he wanted John, if he chose him. He needed to make an objective decision, and he had no idea, at that moment in time, if Mary making a similar declaration would have the same effect. He almost wished he could propose to her, just to find out what his reaction would be to her saying yes, but he knew that that would be beyond cruel. The sort of thing Sherlock would do, he thought suddenly.

"Even... even if it's weeks?" he whispered in reply to Sherlock's admission.

Sherlock smiled sadly. "Even if it's years, John. I owe you that much, don't I?"

* * *

><p><strong>There is going to be a lot of soul-searching for the next few chapters, so I hope you're all ready :) I'll try and inject some humour, and other stuff will be going on too, so it won't be a complete angst-fest, I promise! Hope everyone is still enjoying this. I'm overwhelmed at the amount of favouritesfollows this has already - far more than either of my other fics had at this point - so I must be doing something right. Please review, they make me smile :) x**


	4. Chapter 4

**This chapter keeps disappearing, so I have re-uploaded it to try and combat the problem - I can't tell if it's a universal issue or just a problem with this fic. Hopefully it'll work this time.**

* * *

><p>The door shut quietly behind him, and Sherlock huffed, leaving the washing up for now and forgetting that he was hungry, something that happened often enough to him. He knew that John would likely end up at some pub, probably with Lestrade, drowning his sorrows, and the detective suddenly felt an urge to talk to someone too. Normally, on the rare occasion that he did want to talk anything through, it would have been John he spoke to. This was obviously not possible for this particular circumstance, but after two years of being in hiding, away from people and definitely far too far away from the few friends he did have who knew he was still alive - well, friend; Mycroft was hardly joining the elite group that consisted of John, Greg and Molly - he was even less keen on the idea of sharing feelings and emotions with anyone. But he knew he needed to let it out, needed to speak...<p>

A flash of inspiration. It might work.

"Mrs Hudson!" he yelled, storming to the door, flinging it open and jogging down the stairs. "Mrs Hudson! Did you throw out my skull?"

* * *

><p><strong>Where are you? - Mary<strong>

John checked his phone as he sat at the table, waiting for Greg to show up. He sighed heavily, trying to establish whether she would be okay with her nearly-fiancé having a few drinks with a friend just hours after he'd nearly been blown up, and before he'd seen her. He cursed under his breath, before replying quickly.

**Still sorting things out, might be home late. Please don't wait up, it could go on a while xxx**

It was a sort-of truth. At least he would be with the Detective Inspector, he thought glumly.

He surveyed the room quickly. No one had noticed or recognised him, despite the rolling news coverage still being shown on the television high up on the wall. It was a big story, he thought grimly. It hadn't really registered in his conscience just how big this was likely to be. The vote had been called off anyway, and there were a lot of "what if?" theorists being interviewed, which John couldn't abide. What did it matter? It was sorted, everyone was safe, why did it matter what could have happened? He buried his head in his hands, thoughts swirling unhelpfully, distracting him from the main issue, and waited for his friend.

* * *

><p>Sherlock grimaced as Mrs Hudson filled the kettle. It turned out she had disposed of the skull, the one thing of his she had felt more than happy to get rid of when he'd "died". Using the tiny amount of deductive skills she possessed, she recognised his need to talk to someone, and had offered herself. He had shrugged, not being able to quickly think of a reason why not that wouldn't offend her, and even he was careful not to upset her unnecessarily, especially after he had very nearly given her a heart attack a couple of days before.<p>

"You did well with that Moran character, Sherlock," she clucked, pouring water into two mugs. "Those politicians owe you their lives."

"Hmm," he said non-commitally, not really concerned about a bunch of self-serving idiots. He never had been. It had always been about the puzzle, the case, for him. Other people were irrelevant.

"So what is it, dear?" she asked. "Are you upset about John?"

He shot her a look. "How did you know?"

"Oh, it's obvious Sherlock," she said, settling down opposite him, having handed him his drink. "I still can't believe that he moved on so quickly, and with a woman as well! It was rather disloyal of him."

"Two things, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said wearily, running his hand through his hair and suddenly realising how infuriating John must have found this, constantly. Especially if he was hiding his true feelings... "One, John thought I was dead, and had thought that for about 15 months when he met, and got together with, Mary. Two, we were never together. We weren't a couple. We were just friends."

Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow. "'Were'?" she said, amazingly intuitive all of a sudden.

"I meant 'were' purely in the sense of _before _the Reichenbach... I mean, we are. We are friends."

He studied his tea, wondering why he had ever thought this was a good idea. He didn't dare look up at his landlady, who he knew would be watching him with a thoughtful, wicked smile, and instead took a sip of the still-too-hot liquid.

"I mean... well, we are friends, it was a bit tricky at first, John was rather upset to see me back, thinking I was dead... I guess it was a bit of a shock..."

"Well, we were all shocked, Sherlock..."

"Yes, but did you feel hurt? I saw hurt in John's eyes, Mrs Hudson. He was shocked, he was angry - but he was so, so hurt. Devastated that I hadn't told him, that's what I thought it was. I thought he felt betrayed by me because I never confided in him what was really going on."

"And..." Mrs Hudson reached out and patted Sherlock's hand. He desperately wanted to recoil, but something stopped him. "Were you wrong, dear?"

He inhaled, before setting his eyes on hers. "Yes. I think I was."

* * *

><p>"It's great really, isn't it?" Greg said happily, supping at his pint. "I mean, obviously we're all pissed off at him for hiding away from us for so long, but he had his reasons... it was actually quite a selfless act from him, wasn't it? Otherwise, we'd all be dead."<p>

John nodded, staring at his own drink. "Yeah. I guess so."

Greg eyed him for a couple of seconds, before setting his drink down. "Come on John, what's wrong? When I saw you two in the carriage, I thought you'd forgiven him, I thought everything was okay between you. You looked so close again, it was just like old times."

"Mmm."

The music continued quietly in the background. The television had, thankfully, been switched off, and there was no chance of anyone recognising him now, as the pub was far too busy and the two men were sat in a discrete corner of the room. The chatter added a pleasant ambience to the room, not too loud so that either of them had to raise their voices to talk to each other, but John still felt utterly miserable.

Greg chewed on his lip for a little while, before deciding to just jump in with it. "Yes. You looked... really close. What happened in there, John?"

Finally, he raised his glass to his mouth, but didn't take a drink. "Sherlock tricked me," John said quietly.

"He... he tricked you? How?"

The doctor quickly explained to his friend how Sherlock had told him he didn't know how to diffuse the bomb, tearfully apologised and asked for forgiveness. By the end of his tale, Greg's eyes were almost popping out of his head.

"What an... absolute bastard. Why on earth would he do that?"

Another sigh. "He wanted to force me to forgive him, to tell him that everything was okay between us and speed up my 'getting over' his return."

Greg nodded, understanding. "Well, what did you say to him?"

Inhale. Exhale. "I... forgave him."

Eyebrow raise. "And?"

John screwed his eyes tightly shut. "And... I told him I loved him."

He heard his friend gasp, and suddenly felt the need to defend himself.

"I thought I was going to die, Greg! No one would have ever known, except me and Sherlock. I had to tell him how I felt, knowing that it would never hurt Mary and would never affect anyone, but I could die with a clear conscience. I didn't think of the consequences because there shouldn't have been any!"

"No, no, I completely understand mate," Greg said hurriedly, taking another drink as if he desperately needed it. "I mean, we all joked about it, but I don't think any of us seriously... I mean, especially after you and Mary..."

John nodded, signalling not to go there.

"Yes," Greg said. "Err... what was Sherlock's response?"

John cleared his throat. "He... uhh... he kissed me."

The detective inspector blinked. "He kissed you?"

John nodded. "Greg," he said, looking him directly in the eyes. "I have to make a decision."

* * *

><p>Mary closed her eyes tightly. Something wasn't right. She was utterly convinced that something had happened, something big. John was being... odd. He had been ever since Sherlock's return, which she had put down to shock. But now, something had changed, and she wasn't happy.<p>

John was going to propose to her that night in the restaurant, she was absolutely sure of it. But, apart from a jokey comment the next morning, it hadn't been mentioned since. He hadn't said anything about it while in the hospital - he'd only spoken about Sherlock saving his life, and she'd had to remind him that it was her that had alerted him to the situation and she had undoubtedly been the one to technically save his life - and he hadn't mentioned it since, not that she'd seen much of him. So, was he getting cold feet? Was he ever going to propose?

Her mouth set in a hard line. She knew exactly what she needed to do.

* * *

><p><strong>^^ Hope everyone's still enjoying this! Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews, they make me so damn happy. Please add a few more. Or favourites. Or follows. Even the number of visitors going up makes me beam :) You're all wonderful people. E x<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello! New chapter up, hope you enjoy. I apologise if it seems to be moving a little slowly, but it'll start picking up soon, I promise. :)**

* * *

><p>He'll need time, Mrs Hudson had said soothingly, patting his arm. He'll need to figure out what it is he wants. But if he's got any sense, Sherlock, he'll choose you.<p>

Sherlock knew that John needed to get his head round the events of the past few hours. He'd promised him all the time he needed. Sherlock was not a patient man, but he knew that he would wait as long as it took, however long it took.

That did not mean that he could not do his bit to... hurry things along.

He retreated into his bedroom, moving straight towards his wardrobe, and opened it slowly, once again marvelling at how everything was still exactly as he had left it. Anything he wanted to wear would have to be re-washed - the hanging shirts had collected a bit of dust over the past two years - but his eyes lingered over the clothes, making his choice. If he remembered correctly, the purple shirt had always provided a rather pleasing reaction...

* * *

><p>"It's getting late, John," Greg yawned, setting down his empty pint glass. "I'm due back on shift first thing tomorrow."<p>

John nodded silently, and glanced up towards the bar. The bartender was watching them, the only two left in the pub, clearly hoping they would leave soon so he could close. It was barely 11pm, but for an establishment that was rarely too busy, it was late enough to shut up shop after an acceptable day's trade.

"Have you made any decision? Have I helped at all?" the detective inspector asked.

John gave a low chuckle, draining the last of his pint. "No and not really," he admitted. "I don't know if I expected some sort of epiphany, or if I thought you might just be able to tell me what to do. But I feel just as confused as ever." He rubbed a hand over his face, looking suddenly exhausted, and Greg felt a pang of sympathy for his friend.

"Look, John," he said, turning round to grab his coat from the back of the chair. "I remember what you two were like, before..." He trailed off, raising an eyebrow at the doctor, who nodded his understanding. "Now, I've known Sherlock for a long time - more's the pity. For most of that time, he's been an uncaring, rude, obnoxious arse. Who happened to be a genius that helped solve some of the trickiest crimes for Scotland Yard."

John nodded, guessing what was coming.

"And in the two years before he..." eyebrow raise again, another nod. "...he was still an uncaring, rude, obnoxious arse."

Oh.

Greg smiled a little. "Who happened to gain the ability to actually care about someone else."

John pulled a face. "He cares about you too," he said truthfully. "You were one of the targets that Moriarty had a sniper's rifle set on. As was Mrs. Hudson. I'm not the first person that Sherlock has ever cared about."

"Maybe not," Greg sighed, standing up and pulling his jacket around him. John stood too, holding onto the chair beside him to keep his balance, the few pints that he had consumed apparently being a little too much to keep him steady. "But there was something different about you, John. Everyone could see it. You two had a...rapport. A connection that no one had ever seen Sherlock have with anyone. And we all knew that you felt just as strongly about him as he did about you."

Another nod. John gulped, his mouth suddenly feeling extremely dry, and ran his tongue minutely around his lips.

Greg's voice was suddenly gentle. "And when he left, John," he said quietly, holding his gaze steadily. "You went to pieces."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Two years previously<strong>_

_All eyes were on him. John tried hard to focus on his astonishment at how many people had actually turned up to say their final goodbye to Sherlock, a man who most people had very few kind words to say. People were like that, he thought glumly. It was amazing how funerals often had the ability to make folk suddenly realise how much they actually quite liked someone. Especially if there was a free bar afterwards._

_He cleared his throat, and noticed Mycroft, sat near the front, looking rather bored. Even for that pretentious idiot of a man, John was struck with a sudden anger at how callous he had seemed throughout the whole ceremony. No tears - which John hadn't been surprised at - but no sign of any real emotion whatsoever. He had worn an expression of severe apathy during the entire event._

_Shaking his head slightly, he addressed the rest of the congregation, letting his eyes drop on Mrs Hudson, Greg and Molly, who all looked suitably upset - although he had been mildly surprised at the way that Molly seemed to be holding everything together. Maybe she had managed to finally get over her crush._

_"Sherlock was..." He stopped, glancing down at his notes, suddenly realising he could barely see them due to the brimming tears in his eyes. He looked back up again, resigned to his fate - he was going to have to speak from the heart._

_"Sherlock Holmes was... a complete and utter pain in the arse."_

_A few titters, and a couple of shocked expressions, but he carried on._

_"He had few friends, and few family members who cared about him." A pointed look to Mycroft, who had the audacity to glance at his watch and stifle a yawn. "So I guess I'm probably the best one to speak about him, being his flatmate, his blogger... and, I hope I'm not over-exaggerating my role in his life, but probably his best friend. The only best friend he ever had."_

_He cleared his throat again, and looked down in a vain attempt to read the piece of paper before him, but it was a lost cause._

_"I wish I knew why Sherlock did what he did. He told me that he was not a hero; he told me he was a fraud, and that he wanted me to tell everyone I possibly could that this was the case. So I stand before you now, carrying out his wishes. But I want to add the proviso that... that he was lying." He blinked back the tears threatening to fall down his cheeks, before continuing. "Sherlock Holmes was socially inept. He was an awful flatmate. He had no sense of decorum, and he constantly belittled me and everyone else around him. He left severed heads in the fridge and toenails in the sink. He wore nicotine patches like they were some sort of strange fashion statement and he never cleared up any sodding mess that he made."_

_He paused, taking a breath, and briefly enjoying the shocked faces he could see reacting to his rather strange eulogy._

_"But, he saved my life, in many ways, on many different occasions. He gave me something to live for when I thought my life was over. He made me laugh, he constantly amazed and impressed me..." he gripped hold of the lecturn to steady himself, feeling the tears drawing near again and this time, he was unable to stop them. "And he was most certainly NOT a fraud. He was my friend, and he was a hero in my eyes," he choked out, noticing Mrs Hudson raising a handkerchief to her face. "And one day, everyone will learn that this man's... death... was in vain, that he saved us all, and we all owe him, massively." _

_Dead. Sherlock was actually dead. In the coffin before him, and John would never see him again, never get to tell him how infuriating he was, never get to chase through London's back streets with him, never get to curl up on the sofa writing in his blog and listen to Sherlock rave about how ridiculous it all was. He was dead, gone, for good. It hit him then, hit him hard._

_And everything went black._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Present Day<strong>_

Mary awoke with a start, turning quickly to stare at the digital clock next to the bed. 6am. Work began in two hours, and she knew without checking that John hadn't been home.

She knew, before she asked the practice manager, that John wouldn't be in that day.

She knew, before the text arrived, that John would have "urgent loose ends to tie up" at Scotland Yard.

She knew that he was lying.

* * *

><p>"How are you feeling?" Greg asked over breakfast, though he didn't really need a reply. John looked mildly shell-shocked still, and he could tell that he hadn't slept well. His hair was all over the place, his eyes were bloodshot, his face was white. The detective inspector knew that his spare bed wasn't <em>that <em>uncomfortable, so, unsurprisingly, John must have had a rough night.

"Not good, no," John said, staring vacantly at the plate of toast that his friend had placed in front of him. "I've had... better days."

"And worse," Greg reminded him helpfully. He folded the paper he was reading before holding it out to John. "Nice to see you two are front page news again."

John groaned and accepted the proffered newspaper, unfolding it again and staring at the paper. Greg bit his lip, knowing exactly what John would be looking at.

"Oh god," he muttered, resting his head on one hand. "We couldn't look more like a couple if we tried, could we?"

"Short of you two emerging from the station wrapped in each other's arms and snogging each other's faces off.. no, you probably couldn't," Greg grinned, despite himself. "But at least they haven't commented on it."

"They haven't?" John asked, relieved.

"Well... not on the front page, anyway," Greg smirked, a tiny evil part of him enjoying this.

"Oh for Christ's sake..."

* * *

><p>"Oh Sherlock, honestly," Mrs Hudson remarked, bustling into the living room of Flat 221B, bringing Sherlock his morning tea, something she seemed to enjoy doing now he was back. "You could tidy up a bit, dear." She motioned towards the papers lying scattered across the coffee table, and Sherlock eyed them from his position on the sofa, fingers steepled under his chin, deep in thought.<p>

"The media does rather love to romanticise, does it not?" he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

"Well, after what you told me yesterday, it doesn't seem they're far off, does it dear?" she said wickedly, giving him a sly wink which he glared at her for.

"It's hardly helping my case, Mrs. Hudson!" he moaned, throwing himself back on the sofa in a rather dramatic fashion. "I don't want the press hounding John while he tries to sort himself out. I'm managing to refrain from pushing him for a decision, but they might scare him off!" He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on anything other than the tabloid news dominating the headlines, news that he hoped would not scupper his plans to win John round.

Mrs Hudson, having set down the tea on top of the mass of newspapers, came and perched next to him, patting him on the knee. Sherlock growled. She seemed to have forgotten his distaste for tactile sentiment. Either that or she was purposely trying to wind him up. Either option was just as plausible.

"I see you're wearing that nice purple shirt again Sherlock," she said innocently, eyeing him up. "It suits you, doesn't it? A little... on the tight side, though."

Sherlock opened one eye and looked directly at her. "I'm just... emphasising my attributes," he said, a little coyly. Mrs Hudson burst out laughing and stood up.

"Oh Sherlock," she said fondly. Then she smiled at him. "If it makes you feel any better, I've been rooting for you two right from the start."

"Really? I hadn't noticed," he retorted sarcastically, before waving her away. "Leave me be, please. I need to think."

She made an affronted noise, but he could tell she was only half as annoyed as she was making out, and then quietly left the room. Sherlock closed his eyes again, but was immediately distracted by a text. Fishing for his phone, hoping against hope it would be John, he flicked the lock screen open and smiled as he saw the name appear along the top.

**Popping over soon, you in? - JW**

This could be either good or bad news, Sherlock thought suddenly. He bit his lip, thinking for a few seconds. Even if John had picked Mary, there was a good chance that Sherlock could change his mind - or at least make him reconsider. And if he'd picked him, well.. marvellous. There was always the, significantly larger, chance that he hadn't made any decision at all, and Sherlock could again push him in the right direction.

**Bring Milk. - SH**

* * *

><p><strong>Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Mary's "plan". That will all be revealing itself very soon, plus John will have another flashback to Mary-related events. Anyway, hope everyone is still liking this. Please review, favourite or follow if you did, and thank you very much for reading. You are all lovely and if I could give you all cookies, I would :D xx<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**A quick update - hope you enjoy! Please review, I would be delighted :) And thank you all once again for the reviews/faves/follows I have received thus far, you're all wonderful people.**

* * *

><p>He hadn't made a decision. He could tell that from the moment he walked through the door. A quick, slightly embarrassed but not guilty smile towards the detective, a bottle of milk hanging from his right hand, forehead creased in confusion and anxiety, shoulders slumped from the weight of the last few hours of decision-making. Sherlock was almost relieved - if John had made a knee-jerk choice, the chances would have weighed heavily in Mary's favour, he had calculated. It would have been a panicked, "I'm not gay!" outcome, and the fact that no conclusion had been reached by his beloved doctor was probably good for him.<p>

"Where did you go last night?" he asked in as casual a manner as he could accomplish, taking the milk from John's slightly outstretched hand and moving through to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

John sank down in his armchair. "Greg's," he replied, leaning forward and rubbing his face with both palms, looking absolutely exhausted, even from the back. "I couldn't face Mary. Or you."

Sherlock nodded to himself. Another sign that he was still in with a good chance. The water boiled in the kettle, and he grabbed two teabags and two mugs, and pottered around looking for biscuits, for want of something else to do while the drinks were brewing. He was determined not to antagonise John, but knew himself too well. It was probably best to try and say as little as possible, in case he uttered something regrettable.

"You're actually making tea?" John's voice cut through his thoughts, and, pasting a small smile on his face, he turned his body to face his friend, who was turned in the chair, watching him moving around. He delighted in noting John's very slight jaw-drop as he took in _the _figure-hugging, silk purple shirt, the one that had always been a favourite from their early days of working together. He noted the gulp, John's Adam's Apple moving slightly, and he was sure if he had been closer he would have detected a slight dilation of the pupils.

"I do know how to make tea, John," he said softly, letting his eyes rake over the doctor, then being careful to draw back, not wanting to make him overly nervous. "Are you okay? You seem a little... flustered." He couldn't help the huskiness in his deep baritone as the final word was uttered, and smirked, one side of his mouth flickering up as he caught the shiver that passed through his friend.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John said determinedly, turning back round in his seat, steadfastly ignoring the tempter in the kitchen.

Having finished with the tea, Sherlock brought the mugs through and placed one on the little table next to John's chair, before seating himself opposite and being sure to keep his attention fixed on his own. John cleared his throat and, ignoring the tea for now, sat forward once again.

"Look, Sherlock, I appreciate that you don't appear to be pushing me into making a decision," he said quietly, staring at the floor. "You might have guessed that... I haven't... made up my mind just yet."

Sherlock observed him for a few moments, saying nothing, blowing gently across his tea. "No, you haven't," he murmured. "At least, you don't think you have."

John looked up sharply. "Pardon?"

Sherlock bit his lip. "Sorry. Forget I said that."

"No - I want to know - what do you mean?"

"John, I do not wish to ruin my..."

"You won't Just tell me what you meant."

He pursed his lips together, contemplating, his eyes taking in John's stance - resigned to having to let someone down, not wanting to make a decision but having already made it. Not wanting to _accept _that he had, in fact, made a decision, because he didn't want to hurt anybody.

"I fear I may have got it wrong," Sherlock said eventually. A cop out. He was rarely wrong. "You know my track record with... _emotions," _purposely not keeping the scathing out of his voice. "I may have misread you."

John sighed. "Sherlock, everything I said in that tube carriage... I meant it. Every word. If you hadn't left, I hope I would have eventually found the courage to say it to you before... anyone else came on the scene." He licked his lips, and Sherlock's heart jolted, surprised at his reaction to something so innocent. Even something as small as John's tongue flicking over his own lips sent a rush of _something _into the pit of his stomach, and he self-consciously crossed his legs as he sat, trying to think of something else.

"I do love you, Sherlock. But... it isn't Mary's fault that you came back. And I do love her too. She saved me when I was at my lowest point-"

"Because you couldn't cope without me," Sherlock couldn't help but pointing out, and then bit his lip, wishing he could pull back the words that had escaped his mouth. But John didn't seem to notice, or care.

"- and I owe her so much. If you had been actually dead, if you hadn't come back, I know I could have quite happily married her, started a family. And it would have been... nice."

Sherlock scoffed. "Nice," he repeated, his voice sounding hollow.

John's eyes suddenly flashed. "Yes, _nice, _Sherlock. I would have been perfectly happy with _nice. _Life doesn't have to be all adventure and drama, chasing suspects, nearly getting yourself killed, blown-up, shot, whatever. Nice is family days out, going to the park with the kids, holidays in the sunshine. Nice is pleasant, normal."

"That's not what you want, though," Sherlock bit back. "You _crave _adventure. You couldn't survive on just nice and normal-"

"How on EARTH can you sit there and tell me what I want?!" John exploded. "You fucked off for two years! I survived for two years without you, Sherlock! I went to work, I came home, I went to the pub with mates, I went on dates without being harassed for daring to go out. I met a nice girl and things started to look good again, I was starting to feel content, and then YOU had to show up and ruin it all, didn't you?"

Sherlock glared at him coldly. "Well, pardon me for returning and destroying your cosy little life," he muttered. "I guess you know what decision you need to make then, don't you?"

John stared at him, his face pale. "You are unbelievable, do you know that?" he cried. "I honestly thought you were being so nice, so selfless, understanding that this was so hard for me-"

"It shouldn't be though, should it? You should know if you want to be with me! You've no idea how aggravating this is for me."

" - But I can see that you're the same selfish bastard you always were," John finished quietly, Sherlock's last outburst seemingly an almost perfect proof of John's final statement. He stood up suddenly, forgetting his tea, and, with one last quick glare at Sherlock, he practically marched out of the room.

Sherlock threw his head back into the armchair, pressing his fingers into the fabric of the arms, and groaned. That was not how that was supposed to have gone at all. What happened to staying quiet, letting John make his decision pressure-free? He had completely ruined everything. Unless he tried to make it right... immediately.

Grabbing his coat, he flung open the door and jogged down the stairs. John must have already left, the front door was closed and Sherlock took a deep breath, ready to chase after him. He shook himself slightly before opening the door, and scanned Baker Street quickly, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

There he was. Directly in front of the steps, his back to the flat, stood in front of... Mary, Sherlock realised with a sudden jolt, recognising her immediately. Her eyes were shining brightly as she stared into John's face, her lips parted slightly as she spoke, hurriedly and quietly. She didn't appear to have noticed Sherlock approaching from behind, and as he grew nearer, his stomach turned at the words.

"... and I know that you've had... well, a tough time of things recently, such upheaval, and so many dramatic events... I want to help you, John, and you know how much I love you. And I know what you wanted to say to me before _he _appeared the other night, so..." She paused, glancing back at Sherlock suddenly, and he arched an eyebrow as he waited, but knew exactly what was coming. She didn't smile at him, or even flinch as he took one step closer, but turned back to John, taking his hand and staring into his eyes earnestly.

"John Watson - will you marry me?"

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry for the cliffhanger! Next chapter will include some flashbacks and maybe the response to this cliffhanger... or maybe I'll save that until the chapter after... Reviews might make me update quicker ;) xx<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay, I was feeling generous. The cliffhanger is resolved in this chapter. Sort of :) Please do the usual and I will be most grateful :D xx**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Nine months previously<strong>_

_"I apologise if I'm speaking out of turn, but you look fucking shattered."_

_John couldn't help the slight chuckle that escaped his lips, and glanced up at the blonde woman towering over his desk. He vaguely recognised her as the new nurse who had joined the practice last week, and his eyes flickered down to the badge pinned neatly to her chest._

_"Sleep has been... eluding me somewhat, I'm afraid... Mary," he said, rubbing a tired hand over his face._

_"For about 15 months?" she asked, a small smile on her face._

_John raised an inquisitive eyebrow at her. "Am I part of the induction at this surgery?" he said, somewhat light-heartedly. "Here's where you have your tea break, this is the patient intercom, and Doctor Watson has been severely depressed for the last year and a bit since his best mate killed himself?"_

_"Hmm, not quite." Her smile became more gentle. "I knew who you were anyway, John. I used to read your blog from time to time. I was gutted when Sherlock... you know. I can't believe everything the media said about him."_

_"Yeah, well, don't," John said gruffly, closing the textbook he had been perusing before Mary had entered the room with a thump. "The investigation will be over in a few months, and the truth will come out - Sherlock Holmes was not a fraud." He fixed her with a sharp stare. "I can guarantee that."_

_She nodded solemnly, and, to his surprise, placed a hesitant hand on top of his. "If you ever want to talk..." she said, and raised her eyebrows. "To someone who wasn't directly involved. You know." She bit her lip, clearly nervous she'd overstepped the mark, but John crinkled a genuine smile at her and stood, removing his hand and nodding slightly._

_"Thanks," he whispered. She grabbed some notes that she'd needed from his desk, and shot him another faint smile before departing. John watched her leave, and then sat back down heavily in his seat, forgetting her existence almost instantly as his thoughts returned to his dead friend._

* * *

><p><em>The pub was busy, and John slid between a few bodies to reach the table where Greg and Molly were sat, deep in conversation. Molly cast a concerned eye over him, and he smiled weakly at her, before settling down opposite them.<em>

_"How's it going, mate?" Lestrade asked, indicating the pint he'd already bought for him. John nodded in thanks, wrapping a hand around the glass but not yet picking it up._

_"Yeah, fine actually..."_

_"Honestly?"_

_"Horrible." He raised his eyes up to meet Greg. "I'm not getting anywhere. I get up, shower, have breakfast, go to work, come home, go to sleep. Repeat. Sometimes with the odd..." he waved his hand to signal their meeting up, and Molly nodded in understanding. "That is literally all I do, and my thoughts are constantly clouded with Sherlock." He bit his lip, before bringing the pint to his lips and taking a quick sip. "I must be doing something right - haven't had any patient complaints, so I must be able to distract myself while I'm working. But that's the only thing that seems to be going well in my life."_

_Greg raised an eyebrow, somewhat surprised at John's mild outburst, and John could tell he was trying to assemble a concerned look on his face, while hastily trying to think of something wise or profound to say. Molly was staring at the table, looking absolutely devastated. Not that John was surprised - she was probably hurting just as much as he was. She'd loved Sherlock too._

_Wait. Love? Hang-_

_A frown suddenly creased Greg's brow, and he turned to John, looking a little confused. "Here, are you aware you've got an admirer?"_

_John turned in the direction that Greg was indicating and clapped eyes with Mary, sitting with a group of friends at the bar. She smiled over at him and waved. He returned the smile but didn't wave, turning back round to his friends. Greg raised his eyebrows and Molly smirked, a look that John had never noticed her give before._

_"Well, that's one way of picking things up a little."_

_John frowned. "Eh?"_

_Greg leaned forward a little. "Come on John, she's clearly into you. I can use my vague deductive powers to discern that she must work with you, given the nurses outfit, and she's been staring at your back for quite some time - in fact, she still is, despite chatting to her mates." John resisted the temptation to turn and look, trusting his friend. _

_"I dunno," John said, taking another swig from his beer. "I'm not sure I'm ready-"_

_"John," Greg said, sighing. "It's been over a year. Sherlock's gone, mate, and he's not coming back. And he certainly wouldn't want you wallowing in grief - you reckon he'd do the same if the tables were turned?"_

_John thought about that, and couldn't say for sure what Sherlock would do. He felt that Sherlock had formed a bond with him unlike any he'd ever had with anyone else, yet he'd lied to John (John was utterly convinced it was a lie) and then killed himself for seemingly no purpose whatsoever. It didn't make any sense, and certainly didn't seem like the sort of thing a friend would do._

_"I have no idea," he said honestly. "So, what do you think I should do?"_

_Greg inhaled, glancing at Molly, before turning back to John. "Well, ultimately it's your call," he said. "But I can't see her turning down dinner and a film with you." He grinned, glancing again at the spot behind John, and the doctor knew that Mary's eyes were still burning into him._

* * *

><p><em>"I haven't been here in ages," John confessed, watching as Mary eyed the dark gravestone, the gold lettering of the two words engraved on it seeming to almost sparkle in the sunshine. "It could do with a bit of tidying up."<em>

_Mary slipped her hand into his. "He'd probably call it sentimental rubbish anyway," she said softly, and John was once again struck at how intuitive Mary seemed to be about the dead detective. "I doubt he'd mind."_

_John breathed in the lingering smell of the countryside around them, and tried to concentrate on how he felt about this lovely, sweet woman, who'd willingly trekked down to the grave of a friend she'd never known, and who had sat with him for hours, listening to him talk about everything and nothing, who had held him when he sobbed for Sherlock and who had comforted him. He had been beyond lucky, he knew that, and he should feel more than grateful for everything. _

_He was grateful. And he was... content. It had been nice to have someone else to talk to. And he definitely felt far stronger about Mary than he had about Sarah, or any of his other girlfriends._

_Maybe this was it, he thought to himself, staring at the grave. Maybe this was as good as it got. Everything in his life had calmed down, everything was 'nice'. Greg, Molly, even Harriet had all told him, in various ways, to "keep hold of this one". Maybe they were right._

* * *

><p><em>No. That was not as good as it got. He knew that the second he raised his eyes to that <em>insufferable _face, who, as if he had known exactly what he was doing (and let's face it, John thought, he probably had), had interrupted them right on cue, just as John was about to propose to his girlfriend of eight or nine months. He had immediately banished the thought to the back of his mind as intense rage overcame him. The git. The absolute cock. What the _hell _had he done?_

_Which was exactly the thought Mary voiced as John rose out of his chair. He punched the table. Hard. That shut the stupid smug bastard up._

_"Two years," he muttered into the table. "Two years."_

_At least Sherlock had the good grace to look suitably ashamed._

_"I thought... you were dead. Now you let me grieve, hmm? Why would you do that?"_

_John was waiting, genuinely waiting for a response, waiting for some clear, obvious explanation as to why Sherlock would have put his best friend through that. He figured he was owed that much._

_When Sherlock _dared _make a joke about his moustache, it was the final straw._

* * *

><p><strong>Present Day<strong>

John blinked, once, twice, three times. His eyes were blurry, his cheeks were wet, and he realised that tears had fallen, the memories that had flooded over him reducing him to a wreck in the street. He tried hard to concentrate on what Mary had just asked... marry her?... and stared at her smiling, hopeful face.

"Mary... not now, Mary," he said hurriedly, turning round and seeing Sherlock stood right behind him, his face even whiter than usual, a look of apology (presumably for his earlier outburst) and terror on his face. A look that told him so much, but a look that he couldn't process at that minute. He almost knew how Sherlock felt - too much emotion, too much to handle - and returned to his... to Mary.

"I'm sorry, Mary," he said, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. "You've caught me at a dreadful time. I... I need to walk, I need to be alone for a bit." He dropped her hand as suddenly as he'd grabbed it, took one last, nervous look at Sherlock, and then pulled his jacket tighter around himself, before walking off, leaving Mary and Sherlock staring at each other.

She took one step towards him, a sneer on her face. "You weren't there for him, Sherlock," she whispered. "You didn't see him the way I did. I brought him back to life, and I _will _get him back. You wait."

She turned on her heel and walked off in the opposite direction to the one John had taken. Sherlock watched her go, before retiring back to his flat. He climbed the stairs thoughtfully, returned to his armchair, and steepled his fingers under his chin, staring into the middle distance.

A smile spread slowly across his face. Mary was wrong, he was sure. She would not 'win back' John Watson. He hadn't missed the look on John's face, the horror in his eyes at the sudden prospect, the realisation of the reality of living out his days with her. And whilst he knew that he would have his work cut out to win John back himself, he also knew that he had not lost. Not yet, anyway.

Mary could try as hard as she liked, but she would not succeed.


	8. Chapter 8

***waves* please review, please favourite, please follow, and I shall love you all forever. :D**

* * *

><p>Sherlock slept that night. He had a strong feeling he was going to need as much energy as he could summon up to win John round. After arguing with himself for an hour or so, he had taken a deep breath and texted Mycroft, asking him a favour.<p>

_Please keep an eye on John for me, he's off on one of his walks. And don't phone me, I can't bear to listen to the smug delight in your voice at my asking you for help. SH_

_Oh brother dear, you underestimate me if you think for one minute that I wasn't already watching over him. Just think of me as your guardian angel. MH_

_Why do you care? SH_

_I don't, not particularly. But I care about Ms. Morstan even less. MH._

_Fair enough. Don't let him know that you're watching. SH_

Sherlock had been pleasantly surprised at Mycroft's lack of crowing, and had managed to drift into a semi-peaceful sleep, feeling sure that John wouldn't come to any harm. He hoped that Mycroft would let him know if his friend had ended up somewhere unsavoury, or back at his own house that he shared with Mary, but his phone did not go off at all in the night.

When he awoke the next morning, he immediately went for a shower, a plan formulating in his mind entitled Get John. He was so busy considering the many different strategies whizzing around in his mind palace, that as he made his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on, rubbing his hair dry and wrapped in a long towel, he completely missed the sleeping figure on the sofa.

As he turned around, about to approach his armchair, he stopped abruptly, suddenly noticing the slumbering body, and his heart leapt as he realised who it was. Tiptoeing quietly towards him, he ran an appraising eye across John. Clearly he'd been there a while, from the position he was sleeping in and the obvious depth of his sleep. He was still fully dressed, but he had removed his jacket and shoes, and his face looked creased in confusion, even while asleep. Still, he had returned to the sofa in his old flat in Baker Street, where he obviously knew Sherlock would be, instead of going to a warm bed in his own house where, Sherlock presumed, Mary would be waiting. He was surprised that Mary hadn't turned up here, although he guessed that he probably wouldn't have to wait too long for that particular arrival.

He pottered back into the kitchen, considering the best course of action. Clearly he should leave John to sleep until he woke naturally. Should he make him some breakfast? If he did him some eggs, they wouldn't take too long, so there was no point in starting them until he could sense that John was about to wake. The kettle was boiling; he could get a mug ready with a teabag in, and immediately re-boil the kettle when he rose. That sounded like a decent plan. Something normal people would do, he thought briefly.

Having decided that there was no point in preparing food at that point, and forgetting his own thirst, Sherlock returned to his armchair, having first retrieved a dressing gown to ensure his modesty, wrapping it around his bath towel. He sat back in the chair, resting his hands on either arm, and watched John's chest softly rise and fall as he breathed. It was very relaxing, Sherlock was surprised to find, watching John do something as boring as respire. He could feel a small smile grace his lips as he continued to watch, aching to sit beside him and stroke his hair, or touch his shoulder, but knowing that he shouldn't push John in any way, especially not now, after what had happened yesterday.

Sherlock knew he needed to have a word with himself. He had completely gone against everything he had decided, allowing his irritation at the situation to get the better of him. He needed to be the calm one today, especially if Mary did show up, and he needed to prove to John that he could be patient, that he would wait for him, as long as it took. He _did _owe John, after everything he'd put him through - faking his death, his absolutely tactless return and winding him up in the tube carriage. But then... if he hadn't done that...

He shook his head. "Focus," he muttered to himself. Mycroft was right. Sentimentality was a defect.

* * *

><p>John blinked, his focus adjusting as he lifted his head slightly. His neck was absolutely killing him, and he realised he'd been lying in an awful position. He heard movement from across the room, and, glancing over, he realised where he was. Whatever had made the noise had disappeared, and he craned his neck to get a better view of the kitchen, noticing a tall figure in a long dressing gown dashing around.<p>

"Sh-Sherlock?" John croaked, then cleared his throat as he sat up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. "What are you doing?"

"Making breakfast," came the abrupt response. "Scrambled eggs okay with you?"

John coughed, surprised. "Err... yes. Alright." He stretched, feeling his arms about to lock up, and then turned to look properly. "You're actually making breakfast?"

"Problem?" Sherlock looked up from cracking an egg directly into the saucepan, his eyes locking with John's.

He smiled slightly. "Nope. No problem," John replied. Sherlock nodded, not smiling, before returning to the task at hand.

John sat back in the sofa, trying to sort his confused thoughts. He'd wandered around London for quite some time, grabbed something to eat from a takeaway, and had sat in the park as it got really dark, not quite sure what to think. Mary had proposed, and he knew he had felt... repelled. Sherlock had looked terrified, and John had felt an ache in his heart, which had vanished once he had effectively said no to Mary and Sherlock's face had returned to quiet contemplation. He had thought, up until that point, that he really had no idea what to do, that he was stuck between two people that he loved. Perhaps in different ways, but he had genuinely believed that he loved them both and had no idea who to pick.

After yesterday, he knew that was not the case. He had strong feelings for Mary, but he did not, could not, love her the way he loved his ridiculous best friend. Standing there, watching as she proposed to him, he had been instantly reminded of the dread in his stomach as he had faced Sherlock the Waiter in the restaurant, the feeling that he had immediately pushed to the back of his mind - the feeling that with Mary, he was purely _settling. _He had dismissed it before as a ridiculous reaction to the completely shocking return from the dead of Sherlock fucking Holmes, and had managed to convince himself that that was all it was. But, as he had stared at his girlfriend, he knew that he'd been lying to himself - possibly for quite some time now - and that he didn't really love Mary the way that he _should._

The problem was, he had thought to himself, sitting on that cold, dark park bench, did Sherlock really love him? Sherlock had no concept of love, he was sure of it. Maybe the feelings he had were more like how John felt about Mary - a strong infatuation of sorts, a close bond, but nothing else. And could John really live with Sherlock again? In a new, quite terrifying way? John had never identified as being gay, or even bisexual. To him, Sherlock defied the boundaries of gender. It wasn't about being in love with a man, it was about loving Sherlock. But no one else would see it that way. If John and Sherlock became a couple, they would be classed as gay. They would be Lestrade's - Molly's - gay friends. The gay couple. Was John okay with that? He had never identified as being homophobic either, but he had never for one minute thought it would affect him any more directly than having a gay family member.

His thoughts had washed over him like a tidal wave, consuming him to the point where he couldn't focus on any one issue. He knew he needed to go home. He needed to sleep. And, at that moment, as his brain automatically supplanted "home" with "Baker Street", he knew for sure that he was right to dismiss Mary from this weird 'contest' between her and Sherlock. But that didn't necessarily mean that Sherlock had won. There could quite easily be two losers in this game. Three, including himself.

He was startled out of his reverie as a mug appeared in front of him. Glancing up at Sherlock, he whispered a "thank you" before taking it from him. Sherlock immediately disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Eggs are ready," he said. "Do you want to eat them there?"

John sipped his tea, amazed to discover that Sherlock had made it exactly as he liked it. "Err, no. I'll come through, hold on," he said, bracing himself against the sofa with one hand, holding his mug with the other as he carefully got up, still feeling quite drowsy, and rather stunned by his friend's odd behaviour.

He could feel Sherlock's gaze burning into him as he made his way to the table, feeling a little disconcerted. Not so much at Sherlock staring at him - he was used to that, and he fondly remembered plenty of occasions before the fall when Sherlock had watched him eat, not feeling hungry himself. But it had never felt so intense, even for Sherlock. And it had certainly never happened whilst he was eating a meal that Sherlock himself had cooked.

He gingerly took a bite of his meal, and was once again surprised at how good it tasted. He raised his eyes to thank his friend, and gulped as he felt the burn of the stare he was receiving. His hand shook slightly and he felt suddenly, inexplicably terrified.

"Everything okay?" Sherlock asked, and John shuddered at the smooth, deep baritone - deeper than usual, he was utterly convinced. He was doing this on purpose, trying to... well, John wasn't sure what he was trying to do. John didn't feel sure of anything at that moment.

He cleared his throat again, and nodded, quickly returning to the breakfast.

* * *

><p>"Ooh, John," Mrs Hudson trilled, bustling into the room. "Didn't expect to see you here, dear."<p>

John raised his eyes from the paper, and gave her a quick smile. "Yeah, well. Didn't know where else to go," he said. There was some truth in that.

She gave him a startlingly sympathetic smile, and gave a furtive look around, before raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

John sighed. "He's gone out to see Lestrade," he said. "Something about bothering him for a case. Asked me to wait here til he got back." He put his newspaper down, and pulled a face at his ex-landlady. "He made me breakfast, Mrs Hudson!"

"Well, he's trying to make an effort with you, dear," she said, settling herself down in the armchair opposite John and smiling at him. "He wants to win you over."

"Does he though?" John asked, briefly wondering why he was talking about this to Mrs Hudson, briefly realising that Sherlock _must _have spoken to her about it, which surprised him, before returning to his thoughts. "Or am I just some game, some experiment to him?"

A look of fondness appeared in her eyes, and John felt the warmness radiating from her, and he suddenly realised just how much she loved both of them. It was really sweet, in an odd way, and he felt dreadfully bad for not having visited her in the two years that Sherlock had been "dead". She really did think of them as family. He was overwhelmed with guilt.

Before he had a chance to apologise, again, for his absence, she cut in with an assertion. "I promise you, John, that I have never seen Sherlock act in this way before, ever. That man loves you, and it's high time you acknowledged that fact. For god's sake, you two need to stop dancing around each other and just talk!"

"But I did!" John exclaimed. "In the tube carriage, as I'm sure you know. I told him I loved him. He hasn't told me the same."

Now it was Mrs Hudson's turn to sigh. "Because he didn't want to push you, dear! Isn't it obvious? We all told him to give you space, we all told him to back off and not be his normal impatient self. He didn't want to influence your decision, John, it had to be yours to make and yours alone."

John stared at her. "So... he does, then? Love me?"

A final smile, as she stood up and moved towards him, patting him fondly on the head like he was a beloved puppy. "Oh John," she said. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

* * *

><p>It had been the only way he could think of to do it, and Mrs Hudson had assented. He didn't want to overwhelm John, and he didn't want to overstep the mark, but he knew that John had to be made aware of how he felt, by a neutral ally. He could tell that this was what John was now wrestling with, whether Sherlock felt the same way about him. There were other issues there too, clouding John's judgement, but that was the main one. But he couldn't go in guns blazing, just in case... in case Sherlock was wrong, and John wasn't quite ready to hear it from the man himself. He knew he had to tread carefully - John had effectively ended things with his long-term girlfriend not 24 hours previously, after all. That sort of thing tended to upset people, he was pretty sure.<p>

She shut her door behind her, and turned to face her wayward tenant, sat at her kitchen table, his worried eyes searching hers. "Did it work?" he asked quietly.

"You two are going to be the death of me," she said, in her fake-annoyed voice that he was rather used to by now. "Get up those stairs now and talk to him, Sherlock, before I attack you with my broom."

"But did it work-"

"Of course it bloody worked!" she snapped, but she couldn't help the small smile twitching at her lips. "I think I've made him aware that his feelings are reciprocated. Now go!"

Sherlock beamed at his landlady and approached her, putting a hand on either arm and kissing her on the cheek. "Thank you," he whispered, sincerely, and Mrs Hudson went slightly pink.

"No problem," she said, but Sherlock was already out the door and up the stairs.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock burst through the door, to find the living room empty. Confused, he quickly glanced into the kitchen, but there was no sign of John there either. He tried to think back over whether he might have subconsciously heard John leaving the building while he was still in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, but he knew that he would have definitely heard that. He could only be upstairs, in his bedroom.

He jogged up the stairs, pausing outside the door, collecting himself, and then tapped once, saying "John?" softly at the same time. No response, and when he dared to peek around the door, he was stunned to find that it was empty too. He frowned, moving back into the hall and standing at the top of the stairs, gazing down them in thought. Unless he was in the bathroom, there was only one other place he could be.

The kitchen and living room were still empty as he strode through, noting that the bathroom door was open and the room was definitely not hiding a John Watson. As he made his way towards his own bedroom, his ears pricked up at the sound of soft footsteps. Biting his lip, not sure what to expect, he took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

John was sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed, and as the tall, dark-haired man entered the room, he gazed up at him, his eyes red-rimmed and filling with tears. He was holding a pile of letters, bound with an elastic band, and there was an unreadable expression on his face.

"You... you kept these," he choked out, waving them slightly. Sherlock stared at him, and then nodded.

"How did you even get them?" John asked, and then, sighing, answered his own question. "Mycroft."

"He picked them up for me," Sherlock explained. "Every time you left one, he sent someone to collect them. Surprising really, what with his thoughts on sentiment."

John nodded, and then lowered his hand, flicking the small pile of paper with a thumb. "Did you read them?" he asked, almost timidly.

"Yes."

John nodded, pursing his lips, looking suddenly embarrassed. "You weren't supposed to, really. You were supposed to be dead. It was my... closure. My therapist... she recommended it... I don't think she intended for me to leave them on your sodding gravestone, but it felt right..." he broke off, shaking his head and then fell forward slightly, resting his head in his upturned palms, elbows balanced on his knees.

Sherlock had no idea what he was supposed to do. Should he try and comfort John? Should he talk to him? Should he leave him alone?

"I'm sorry I came in here, by the way," John said suddenly. "I had a sudden... feeling. I'd forgotten all about them, it was a while ago that I left the last one."

"I know," Sherlock said, then leant against the door frame, folding his arms. "I'd hoped that that meant you were moving on, that you had... gotten over me, for want of a better phrase."

John lifted his gaze then, and locked his eyes with Sherlock's. "No," he said firmly. "I never got over you."

The detective opened his mouth to say something, but, for once, found no words. He suddenly realised his mouth was very dry, and, desperate for a drink but realising he couldn't just disappear, he licked his lips tentatively. John's eyes narrowed and Sherlock suddenly felt very unsure of what his plans were, now that Mrs Hudson had done her bit. He screwed his eyes tightly shut, and searched desperately through his mind for some sort of clue as to the best course of action.

John was stood up suddenly - Sherlock could sense him standing directly in front of him. "You weren't with Lestrade, were you?"

He opened his eyes, again trying to read John but coming up blank. "No."

"You sent Mrs Hudson up to suss me out."

"Yes."

John laughed hoarsely. "Why can't you just be _normal, _Sherlock?" he exclaimed. "Why do you have to involve our fucking housekeeper in your stupid games? Is this some other part of your experiment, hmm? How many people can you convince that you actually have proper feelings for another human being?"

Sherlock blinked rapidly at him. "John, I-"

"No," John said exasperatedly. "I'm tired, I feel like an emotional cripple, and I'm trying to talk to someone who doesn't even know what fucking emotions are. I'm going-"

"No you are not!" Sherlock cried, and immediately shut the door and stood in front of it, blocking John in his room.

Now it was John's turn to blink, before he raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock, I could easily move you out the way if I wanted to, you know that, right?"

"Yes," hissed Sherlock. "Of course I know that - the great Captain Watson could overpower me easily if he damned well chose to. But you're not going to, because you are going to sit there and you are going to listen to me try and tell you how I feel about you!"

There was silence. Sherlock wasn't sure how long it stretched on for, how long John stared at him, how long he watched as annoyance, followed by anger, followed by surprise, followed by... hope? ... drifted through his eyes. But eventually, wordlessly, John retreated, sitting back down on the bed, still clutching the letters.

"Maybe, John, if you tried to use the few deductive powers that I know you possess, you wouldn't have come to the horrifically erroneous conclusion that you seem to have found yourself at," he said quietly, slowly, and was pleased to note that John looked momentarily confused.

"You are holding in your hand one of the biggest clues as to my true feelings about you," he continued, his eyes flickering down to the papers. "Every single letter you wrote for me, I kept, I read, I re-read, and I stored away. Mycroft sent them to me when he could. They kept me going when I was at my lowest ebb, when I thought there was a chance that I might never see you again. I know they weren't love letters - you hadn't realised your true feelings for me at that point, I don't suppose - but they were the closest things I had ever received to loving correspondence, even if the writer did not know that the addressed could read them. And I treasured them, John."

The doctor scratched his head, glancing down at his hands, before looking back up at Sherlock. His cheeks were tinged slightly pink, and that earlier look of hope was definitely back.

"Secondly, I kissed you," Sherlock reminded him. "In the carriage, when you said.. what you said. I made the move, I kissed you, knowing everything I did. Knowing that you were with Mary, that you were going to get engaged, and knowing that the bomb wasn't going to go off, we were going to survive and there was a good chance you would go back to her and break my heart. I still let my guard down and kissed you.

"Thirdly, I stayed away, or did my best to," he said ruefully. "I tried so hard not to be selfish, not to convince you. It wasn't just some game for me to win, John. I want you so badly that I was willing to wait however long it took for you to choose me. Even if you had picked Mary, I still would have waited, hoping you would change your mind."

He watched as John searched his face for the lie that he knew he expected to find, and the dawning realisation as he failed in his endeavour. Then the swallow, his Adam's apple moving gently in his throat. The pile of letters was dropped to the floor.

Sherlock took one step towards John, who rose shakily to his feet. "Yes, I asked Mrs Hudson to talk to you, and yes, I lied to you about where I was. But I only did that so I could be sure..." He reached out and gently ran a finger down the side of John's face, caressing his cheek softly. "...That you were ready for me to admit that I love you, John."

John inhaled sharply, and Sherlock had half a second to note that his pupils were blown so wide he could barely see the irises, before he felt the wooden door against his back, felt fingers digging into his shoulders as John grabbed hold of him, shoved him backwards and kissed him, so hard that Sherlock thought he might faint. His hands found John's hair and he raked his fingers through the short length of it, as John bit down on his bottom lip and he groaned into the kiss, his hands now running down John's back and resting on his hips.

This is what he'd been missing, Sherlock thought to himself, trying to memorise every tiny detail about the kiss, every bite, every lick, every touch of their hands on each other, the gentle tugs, the moans. Then he pushed it all to the back of his mind and just let himself get lost in John's embrace, finally, for once in his life, just letting go.

John pulled away suddenly, and before he had a chance to say anything, Sherlock heard it too. The voices of two very angry women, coming ever nearer, one quite a bit younger than the other.

* * *

><p><strong>Two chapters left of this one :) one more little cliffhanger here, but it will end happily, I absolutely promise. Please review :)<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock couldn't help the smirk forming. It was such a ridiculously _English _scenario, he wanted to laugh aloud. Mary, John and himself were sat at the table, drinking tea, whilst Mrs Hudson hovered, looking nervous. She'd tried to apologise to the men for not somehow physically stopping an angry Mary from entering the flat, but John had assured her that she had done nothing wrong. Sherlock had made no such assurance and had briefly considered arming his landlady with an assault weapon for situations such as these. Things were finally happening with John, and then this woman had come rushing in and interrupted everything. Why wouldn't she just give up?

He almost admired her perseverance though, and empathised with her obvious love for the doctor. She was sitting there now, doe-eyed, looking beyond miserable and John hadn't even said anything to her. He had wanted her calm before they discussed anything. He had refused to let Sherlock slip away - the fact that he wanted him there must be a good sign, Sherlock kept reiterating to himself. It was probably why Mary already looked beaten. That and it had probably been very obvious, when the two men had emerged from Sherlock's bedroom, what they had been up to. Or at least, what they had about to have been up to, he thought ruefully.

The silence was approaching painful levels, and Sherlock glanced up at Mrs Hudson, flicking his eyes towards the door. She got the hint, making her excuses and leaving the three of them to it. As she closed the door, John exhaled slowly and shot a grateful look at the detective.

Mary was staring at her empty mug, running a finger around the rim of it, and John reached out to gently touch her hand. She jumped, as if only just noticing him, and raised her head, but she looked directly at Sherlock.

"What is it about him, John?" she asked quietly, refusing to look away from the detective who held her gaze stubbornly. "Why is he so special?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her. He was surprised at her initial question. It sounded defeatist, something he hadn't pegged her as. He had thought she would at least attempt to win him back, like she had promised Sherlock she would.

John squeezed her hand lightly before drawing back. "I know you saved me, Mary," John said. "You did, and I'm grateful for that. If Sherlock had never returned, if he had actually died, then we would have been together, we would have got married, we would have had children. It would have been..." he turned slightly towards Sherlock, "...nice."

Mary laughed hollowly. "Is this supposed to make me feel better?" she asked hoarsely, a tear slipping down her cheek. She looked away from Sherlock now, and back down at the table, searching in her pockets for a tissue.

John shrugged. "I think you deserve to hear the truth, and I might as well tell you now. You've done nothing wrong, Mary. This situation is... ridiculous. If Sherlock hadn't 'died', I would never have had need for you, as cruel as that sounds. You were my aid to get me through the pain of losing him and, if you're honest with yourself, you _knew _how much he meant to me. I warned you of that when we first got together. I'm amazed, quite frankly, that you weren't more worried when he showed up."

Mary sniffed, locating a tissue and blowing her nose. "I liked him," she whispered. "I really did. I never thought he'd tear us apart."

Sherlock frowned at that. "Whilst I am aware of my almost legendary status of being an unfeeling sociopath, I can promise you, Mary, that I never intended to end your relationship. I genuinely thought that John had managed to meet someone who he loved, someone who would make him happier than anyone else could - myself included - and I was glad that he had found you."

John nodded. "And we would have probably both continued on in that way, were it not for the incident in the tube carriage."

Sherlock wasn't surprised to see the look of angry acceptance flash over Mary's face. "I knew it," she said, her voice sounding full of quiet rage that made even Sherlock feel slightly nervous. "When I turned on the news channel and saw you both emerging from the station - I knew something was up, but I ignored it."

"I thought we were going to die," John said softly, and Sherlock was pleased and eternally grateful to note that he didn't mention _why _that was the case. "I thought I'd never see you again, and you would never know what I was going to say to him." He jerked his head towards Sherlock. "So I told him... I told him that I loved him." The doctor cleared his throat and his face coloured slightly.

Mary glanced up at John. "Did you ever love me?" she asked softly, heartbreakingly. Even Sherlock felt sad for her.

John smiled sadly at her. "I do love you, Mary," he said honestly. "I really do... but not in the way that I should. I love you for saving me. Without you, I wonder what might have happened. I was in such a bad place, just drifting from one day to the next. I often thought of..." he drifted off, clearly not wanting to go down that route, but both Sherlock and Mary knew what he had been about to say. Sherlock felt himself tensing, felt a little nauseous at the thought that he might not have had a John to return to, had it not been for Mary.

The woman herself, though, looked furious again, and she turned her attentions back to Sherlock. "You see?" she hissed at him. "You see what your stupid antics did to him? He would have ended it all - for no good reason! - because of you and your ridiculous tricks!"

Sherlock gazed at her, and could see the look of surprise in her face at his sudden, obvious vulnerability. "You're right," he murmured. "You're absolutely right Mary... I owe you so, so much. You really did save him."

She snorted at that, then looked suddenly thoughtful. "Do you love him?" she asked. "This really isn't just a game to you, is it?"

He shook his head. "No," he said. "I didn't think I had it in me to love another human being... in that way," he explained. "But in answer to your first question - yes, I do love him." He glanced at John, who was staring at him, clearly waiting for him to continue. "I can't tell you how much. No words could ever do it justice. And I don't think it would be fair to you to make you listen anyhow, but know that I will do everything in my power to keep him safe, to love him as much as he deserves to be loved and then a thousand times more," he finished gently.

Mary swallowed, and, to everyone's amazement, she reached out and grabbed Sherlock's hand briefly, mouthing "Thank you" at him before letting go. Sherlock was suddenly struck by how much Mary really did love John, and how, ultimately, she would rather he was happy than miserable but with her. A feeling of guilt swam over him, niggling in the form of a lump in his throat and he bit his lip, feeling overwhelmingly like the 'bad guy' in this situation.

She turned back to John and smiled softly at him. Sherlock noted the crestfallen look in his eyes and knew that it had hit him too. It only made Sherlock feel worse, and he hated what this man had done to him. He had survived perfectly contentedly for the last however many years, not getting bogged down with feelings and emotions, and then John Watson had entered his life. Suddenly, he felt bad when certain people were hurt. He felt _guilt _and _sorrow. _It was... horrible.

"John isn't the one in the wrong here," he said suddenly, waiting for both Mary and John to turn their attentions to him before continuing. "This is all my fault, I shouldn't have reacted in the carriage. I should have just told you that I had switched the bomb off, and ignored your-"

"No," Mary said firmly, as John shook his head. "No, I wouldn't have wanted to live a lie. Even if you had actually been dead, Sherlock. I'm... glad that this has come out. Well, I will be once I've screamed into a pillow and eaten a ridiculous amount of chocolate."

"Don't forget the drunken tearful karaoke sessions," he murmured, and he could have sworn he saw a grin flash over her features.

"I wouldn't want to subject anyone to my singing voice," she said, a weak laugh underlying her voice.

"I'm so sorry Mary," John said, and Sherlock could tell that he meant it. "You've been so wonderful, and so honest with me. I feel so awful that I couldn't tell you how I truly felt much earlier. "

There was a pause, the kind of pause that made Sherlock's ears prick up. He shot a look at Mary, and saw how nervous she suddenly looked. He leant forward minutely. She was about to divulge some information, and ask them for help, he could tell. Something huge. And he knew that John would feel obliged to help, especially after all of this.

"Would it make you feel better," she started hesitantly, fiddling with her sleeve, "if I told you that I haven't been honest with you at all?"

* * *

><p><strong>There is likely to now be two more chapters after this one (not including an epilogue, should I decide to write one) - sorry about that! Also, to make you aware (obviously you know what Mary is going to tell them - or I hope you do!) that Magnusson will not be appearing in this story. <strong>

**Also, depending on how brave I feel, the rating *might* go up - if you feel strongly either way about how far I should push the Johnlock stuff, then please let me know in the reviews :)**

**I've written Mary how I honestly think she would have reacted in this scenario - I imagine some won't agree, but this is how I see it. I hope I haven't gone too OOC, if at all. **

**Thank you so much for all your continued support! Reviews are always welcome and very much appreciated :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**So, it's been a while (for me!) and for that I apologise. I've just started the third year of my degree and, on top of being a mum to two delightful but time-consuming children, things are getting a bit hectic. But, I've finally updated this (after promising TheVenturer an hour ago that I would do it this week, and then having a flash of inspiration and just letting myself write!) so I hope you enjoy. There will be one more chapter after this one, please read A/N at the bottom (I don't want to give anything away until you read this chapter). And, as usual, reviews and favourites and follows and hugs (virtual ones, just wrap your arms round the computer and they'll get to me) are always appreciated :) x**

* * *

><p>John bit his lip, glancing at Sherlock briefly before returning his attention to his ex-girlfriend. "What haven't you been honest about, Mary?" he asked quietly, and, Sherlock noted, a little dangerously.<p>

Mary's fists clenched slightly, a panicked look stricken across her face, and she exhaled slowly, staring studiously at the table in front of her, refusing to meet either of their faces. Stretching out one of her hands, she absent-mindedly drummed her fingernails on the table.

"Well, that's the first thing," she said softly. "Mary. That's not my name. Not my... original name, anyway."

Everything suddenly fell into place for Sherlock. He fought hard to resist the temptation to jump into the air, exclaiming "Aha!" and finishing off Mary's story for her. John sensed Sherlock's sudden excitement, and blinked at him.

"What's wrong?" he asked him, ignoring Mary's surprising revelation for a few seconds.

Mary snorted, her gaze flickering up to the two men finally. "He's got it," she said. "Sherlock, would you like to..."

"No, no," he replied quickly. "It'll be more accurate if you do."

"I don't even know why I'm telling you any of this," she sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Except... I guess I'm in a bit of trouble, and I reckon that if anyone can help me, then the great Holmes and Watson are probably my best bet. And... I also reckon, you probably owe me one here."

"Hmm," Sherlock nodded. John just looked stunned.

"What do you mean, that isn't your name? Why would you change your name?"

"It makes complete sense, actually," Sherlock cut in. "I did think it was strange that you would fall for someone so... _vanilla, _John. You always were addicted to the more exciting, dangerous lifestyle... it's no wonder you'd fall for an ex-assassin..."

"A _what?" _John asked incredulously. "Sherlock, how can you... what did... why would..."

"All excellent questions, John," he drawled, letting his gaze fall over the nervous woman seated opposite him. "I should have allowed myself to ponder longer over the fact that you were aware of what a skip code was..."

"I'm surprised you weren't more shocked by that, but I didn't consider it until afterwards," Mary said. "I guess I was just too concerned about John to worry about what my behaviour was showing of me."

John stared between both of them. "Sorry, can one of you explain to me what the _hell _is going on here?" he demanded. "What on earth is a skip code?"

"The message that Mary received, to alert us that you were in danger, was written in a code that most laymen would not be aware of," Sherlock explained. "I, also, was distracted by other things at the time, and so did not waste any precious seconds examining how your very ordinary girlfriend knew what it meant. But, given that she has admitted to a change of identity, plus a few other things, it is all starting to make sense."

Mary nodded. "He's right, John. I... I'd rather not go into any major details. I was an assassin, and I was bloody good at it too. I'm not English. My name isn't Mary. I was perfectly willing to morph into Mary Morstan... hoping to one day become Mary _Watson... _and forget about my past. I wanted to be your wife, to have your children, and be a normal, quiet nurse. It was going to be lovely. But then this happened -" she gestured between the two men. "And then, yesterday, I heard tell that my cover may well be blown. How, I'm not sure, but evidently there is a large news corporation that is possibly aware of my past, and soon they will come to me, threatening to expose me." She paused for breath, and Sherlock watched as her eyes flickered back to John, who was sat completely still, mouth slightly open, staring at the woman he had thought he'd known so well.

"I still wanted you to pick me," she admitted. "And if you had, I was going to tell you everything, hope you would stick with your choice, and somehow find a way around it. I know it sounds crazy, and you would probably end up hating me, but I know how much you love Sherlock.." her voice cracked a little, and she gulped, before continuing. "And I thought, if you could possibly love me even more, then you would stick by me, and we'd get through it together. But now... now I need to face it alone, but I still... I could still really use your help."

There was a long, terrible silence. Sherlock's mind was whirring at a rate of knots, considering all possibilities and dismissing most of them almost immediately. He barely noticed John sat alongside him, still trying to process everything that the last five minutes had thrown at him.

"Hang on," John said suddenly, breaking the silence, noting that Sherlock was gone for a few minutes and taking the opportunity to speak what was, effectively, quite privately with Mary. "How do you expect either of us to help you? And why would we? Why on earth would Sherlock want to help the woman who tried so hard to... win my heart and take it from him?"

Mary smiled sadly. "Because he knows you'll want to help me, deep down," she replied simply. "And he'd do anything for you, John."

John couldn't help the slight smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. He stole a glance at Sherlock, who was clearly still encased in his Mind Palace, and nudged slightly closer to him. "I guess he would," he agreed. "Still, it's a rather interesting case for him, that's probably helped."

She nodded, and John saw the look in her eyes. She was still sad, clearly devastated she had lost John - he knew he wasn't being egotistical. He could tell that she really did love him, despite her past, despite the fact that she had lied so damned much to him. But there was something else there too - a fear that John couldn't quite understand. Surely she had been threatened by worse in her time, than some rag wanting to blow her cover? She could have presumably got a new identity, and...

Oh.

John and Sherlock had, in their own way, both come to a similar conclusion at the same time, Sherlock 'coming round' as John interpreted the terrified gaze in his ex-girlfriend's wide eyes.

"You'll need to take on another new identity," Sherlock said, surprisingly gently for him. "I think Mycroft would be willing to help... I'm sure he owes me a favour or two, and I know it is within his powers to do so..."

"But, she would have to be moved as well," John breathed, and Mary sniffed, reaching under the table for her handbag and fishing for a tissue.

Sherlock pulled a slight face. "Yes," he said quietly. "I would imagine she would have to be re-located. For her own safety."

Mary shook her head, but the men knew it wasn't through disagreement. It was through pure grief, something within her fighting against the notion that she would have to give up the life she had carved for herself in London, give up her friends, her work, and start all over again.

"I don't even know if it's worth it," she coughed, holding the discovered tissue to her face. "There's no way we could... someone could talk to..?"

"Mary," Sherlock said. "You're not a stupid woman. You know the powers these red-tops hold over the government. I very much doubt there is anything anyone could do to stop them going with a story like this. Especially... they can link it into us. We're still current news."

John nodded, suddenly agreeing. "We just saved several hundred people's lives," he reminded Mary. "Imagine what a coup a story like this would be. They may well still run it, even if you disappear, but we'll be able to manage it ourselves. We might have to sell it as an "I can't believe she betrayed us" story, but you... you would be long gone by then anyway," he said sadly. "It won't hurt you."

"It will," Mary said. "It's already hurt me. I'm going to have to go, aren't I? Start all over again, meet new people and just hope..." She stopped, catching her breath and moving her hand to briefly grasp John's tanned one. "I just hope I meet someone even half as amazing as you, John."

Sherlock rose from his chair, suddenly sensing that the pair of them needed some sort of closure. "I'll go and contact Mycroft," he said softly, squeezing John's shoulder and giving Mary a slight nod.

* * *

><p>The tables were turned dramatically. Sherlock went from having favours owed to him by his elder brother to suddenly being very much in his debt. He had known that Mycroft would be able to help, and had had to do a severe amount of bartering before an agreement was reached. He had groaned once the conversation had been over, knowing he would pay for this for quite some time. Sherlock obviously wasn't allowed to know where Mary would go, and they were given very little notice before she was spirited away. The less the two men knew, the better, as far as everyone was concerned. For Mary's safety.<p>

John had withdrawn into himself a little once she had gone, and Sherlock took to pottering around, avoiding John's moods and consoling himself with some experiment or other, or disappearing to go and bother Lestrade. Molly would always ask where John was if he turned up at St Barts, and Greg would voice his opinion that Sherlock should make more of an effort to bring John out of himself, but the consulting detective took no notice of anyone. John needed this time to get his head around everything, he told himself. He certainly didn't need Sherlock bothering or pestering him.

John had moved back into Baker Street, but had taken up residence in his old bedroom, which Sherlock hadn't been too surprised at. It had been eight days since Mary had left, and the two men had barely spoken to each other since, let alone been intimate in any way. Every time Sherlock risked a glance over in John's direction, if they happened to be in the same room, he always looked devastated, withdrawn and nervous. Sherlock began to worry that John was convincing himself that he had made the wrong decision.

After another three days, he could bear it no longer, and, when John walked in after a long shift at the surgery, Sherlock ambushed him, leaping over the coffee table and pinning him against the door he had just closed. John's face changed in a matter of seconds from tired to surprised, drawn to alert, and Sherlock studied him closely, letting his eyes flicker across his face, watching as John returned the looks, lips parted slightly, an intrigued look clouding his features.

"You still want me," Sherlock murmured. "But..." He had expected to see a regret, something that alerted him to thinking of Mary and what he could have had, but there was nothing there at all. All signs pointed to John being very much attracted to Sherlock, and aroused by their sudden proximity, something that Sherlock could feel gently against his thigh more than deduce from his face...

"But...?" John queried.

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Hmm," he said. "But... nothing, John. You just... want me."

"Yeees," John responded. "I thought I made that quite clear about a fortnight ago."

"But..." Sherlock stepped back, and couldn't help but notice the murmur of complaint from John's lips as he withdrew from their heated, close encounter. "I thought you were... grieving, I suppose. I thought you'd want to be left alone to..."

John huffed. Then smiled. Then his face practically lit up as he grinned at the baffled detective.

"You thought that I was... upset? Sherlock, I thought you were in shock, at the situation. I thought you needed time to come to terms with this change, of us being together. I didn't want to push you. But then when you continued to not speak to me for days on end, I... I panicked," John admitted, taking a step towards Sherlock. "Yes, obviously I'm sad that Mary had to go. I loved her, in some way. But we made our peace, when you left us alone. We said everything that needed to be said, and we parted on good terms. I don't tend to keep in touch with exes, it's just this time I know I will definitely not bump into her in Tesco or catch a glimpse of her in a pub - or if I do, I won't be aware of it," he explained, as Sherlock continued to watch him, marvelling at the sense unravelling from _his doctor._

"Sherlock," John continued, grabbing his hand and leaning into him slightly. "I chose you. I was always going to choose you. And I don't regret that for a single second. Especially after you went so far out of your way to help Mary, for my benefit. I can never thank you enough for that."

The atmosphere change practically alarmed him. In a matter of moments, it had gone from tense, and cold, to positively electrifying. He had never been more aware of his inexperience in any given situation, but he didn't really care. He had a feeling that instinct would play a big part in whatever happened over the course of the rest of the evening.

Drawing John closer to him, he wrapped one arm around his back, closing the gap between them. His other hand drifted to John's hair, fingers raking through the short sandy locks, a gentle hum of contentment escaping his mouth as he finally allowed himself to experience the feel of this wonderful man. Lips practically touching, feeling John's nervous breath mingle with his own, Sherlock couldn't help the predatory grin spreading over his face, against John's mouth.

"So, what now, doctor?"

* * *

><p><strong>Right. Having ummed and ahhed for a while, I've decided that I will keep the rating of this story to a T, but the next chapter will be basically just the two of them having fun. So you have been warned, and if you're not at all interested in that sort of thing, then that's absolutely fine and I hope you have enjoyed this little fic of mine and thank you very much for reading. If you are interested, then I will do my very best to finish and upload the last chapter within the next week or so, and I really hope you enjoy that one too. I also apologise again for taking forever to get round to this - I have my other drabble collection going, and when I'm feeling a bit of writers block coming on, I find them easier to write, so they had been updated while this had been sitting at the back of my mind as I tried to overcome the block. Which I hopefully have now. Thank you so much for reading, and remember that reviews are what keep me going. :) x<strong>


	12. Chapter 12

**Just to explain - I have panicked a little and changed the rating of this to an M, just to be on the safe side. I am not convinced that it warrants an M rating, but would rather be safe than sorry - I have avoided any explicit phrasing. The rest of my A/N is at the end, I really hope you all enjoy this. E x**

* * *

><p>"So, what now, doctor?"<p>

What now. Unfortunately, not quite what Sherlock had in mind.

"Unlike _some _people," John said, pulling his head back slightly from the face of the consulting detective that was suddenly wrapped around him, "I have to eat at regular intervals, and I am absolutely starving. Had to work through lunch today."

Sherlock huffed and let go of John unceremoniously, causing the doctor to chuckle. "Look, you won't get much sense out of me until I've got some food in my stomach, so how about you take me out somewhere? Once I've got showered and changed, obviously. Don't much fancy carrying the lingering aroma of elderly and ill people around with me."

The taller man's eyes lit up at the mention of a shower, but John grinned and shook his head. "You are going to stay in here and wait for me, Sherlock. No distracting me in the bathroom, please, it'll just prolong... everything."

He raised an eyebrow. "_Everything?_"

John raised up onto his toes and kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips. "If you're lucky."

* * *

><p>Angelo's was apparently an acceptable place for a dinner date, as John knew that the food was good there and Sherlock knew that, if he had a quick word with the man himself, the meals would be served as quickly as humanely possible. Sherlock Holmes didn't do patience with much at all, and it appeared that the knowledge that their evening was likely to end up with John Watson in his bed - or him in John's bed - was doing nothing to help his restlessness.<p>

"Bloody good service tonight," John commented as their dinner was placed before them within ten minutes of being ordered. Sherlock nodded in agreement, picking up a fork and toying with his salad whilst John went to work on the ridiculously large bolognese. Trust John, who wasn't the fastest eater in the world, to pick one of the largest meals possible.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you were tormenting me," Sherlock whined as John slowly twirled the long strands of pasta around with his fork, a slight grin adorning his face.

"Oh, come on Sherlock. Surely you can bear to wait another hour or so?" John leaned in slightly, his eyes wide and shining brightly. "I promise I'm worth it."

The detective growled, but couldn't help noticing the pleasing change in John's demeanour since he had cornered him in the flat earlier. He was struggling to believe that he had honestly thought for one minute that John might have changed his mind. Of course he had made the right decision. Not wanting to overly inflate his already rather large ego, Sherlock knew that John had been attracted to him long before the events of Reichenbach, even if John hadn't realised it himself. And Sherlock knew that he had reciprocated those feelings, although he hadn't allowed himself to dwell on them, depositing them safely in the back of his extensive Mind Palace, always to be looked at another day. A lump caught in his throat as he considered how wretched John must have felt after Sherlock had faked his death. Sherlock always knew that John was okay - he had contacts keeping him relatively well informed as to what he was up to. But John had thought Sherlock was dead, for two years. The thought of imagining John dead for one minute made Sherlock feel desperately ill and, without really realising he had done it, he reached out and grabbed John's hand.

John looked down at Sherlock's fingers gripping into his own hand tightly, then raised his head, a questioning look on his face.

"I made you watch me kill myself," he said quietly, and he didn't miss the flash of pain that shot across John's eyes. "I abandoned you for two years, while you thought I was dead. I caused you unimaginable suffering..." John snorted at that, ready to respond with a 'big-headed' remark, but Sherlock shook his head slightly, not wanting to be interrupted. "...And then I caused you to end your relationship for me. I think even I can wait another hour for you."

John swallowed, even though there was no food in his mouth, and nodded silently, as Sherlock's hand slipped away from his and he resumed eating.

After a few moments, he set his cutlery back down, and Sherlock, who had been glancing out of the window, allowing his mind a very rare chance to wander slightly, turned to look at him.

"Suddenly I find myself not very hungry," John said quietly, gazing across the table at Sherlock. "I think I'd quite like it if we went home, please. I think we've both waited long enough."

Sherlock struggled to contain the smirk, itched to reach across and grab John's hand again, but instead turned again and lifted his eyebrows to Angelo who was stood across the room, watching them carefully. He bustled over immediately.

* * *

><p>The walk home was silent at first. Neither of them felt like rushing, savouring this quiet journey to where they belonged, finally. It felt almost symbolic in some odd way, and Sherlock, hands buried deep in his large pockets, contemplated reaching out and taking John's gloved hand, holding onto it tightly to try and convey the emotion he felt. But before he had time to consider whether this would be an acceptable mood, John moved suddenly closer to him and slipped an arm in the loop created by Sherlock's own, leaning against him slightly and resting his head into his shoulder. Struck by the sudden public intimacy, but not caring at all what anyone else might think, the taller man smiled to himself and relaxed into the walk, stooping ever so slightly to aid John. They continued their walk back to Baker Street in companionable, wonderful silence.<p>

Sherlock marvelled to himself how there was no real urgency in their movements, how completely normal and relaxed it all felt. This lasted right up until they had stepped inside at 221B, having climbed the stairs and closed the door behind them. Now it was just them, in their flat, knowing that there was no one downstairs to disturb (god bless Mrs Hudson's bingo nights) and that this was going to be their first night _together. _It all felt suddenly very highly charged.

The cold had brought a slight flush to Sherlock's cheeks, which the warmth of the inside was only heightening, he noted as he glanced quickly at his reflection. John was watching him expectantly, having removed his gloves and coat and even his jumper, and now stood, leaning against the sofa, his arms folded, only heightening the shape of those muscular arms that Sherlock had always admired. He minutely licked his lips, and Sherlock realised that John was waiting for him to make the first move.

He drew his gaze down from John's mesmerising blue eyes, raking down his face, pausing at his mouth, then down further, across his chest, taking in his stance, his broadness, his legs slightly apart, then back up to his mouth, moving slightly closer to him. Reaching out, he placed one hand on John's bicep, feeling the firm muscle, and the other cupped his face lightly, pushing it up ever so slightly to lock eyes with him.

"I know that now probably isn't the time for ridiculous clichés," Sherlock said softly, lightly stroking John's chin with his thumb. "But I promise you, I will do whatever it takes to make you realise how much I adore you every day, John. I am so grateful that you picked me... that you gave me a chance to prove that I can love another human being."

There was a low mumble in John's throat, and he grabbed Sherlock's hand. "Shut up and kiss me," he muttered.

Sherlock didn't need telling twice.

Pulling John close to him again, his left hand still very much in John's clutches, Sherlock allowed himself the luxury of pressing his face so close to John's he could see the flickering of his pupils, the dilation and the widening of his eyes, feeling John breathing against his skin, before gently and somewhat hesitantly touching his lips against his. He could feel the rush of endorphins, could feel the voice in his head screaming at him to just go for it with everything he had, but he so desperately wanted this kiss to convey just how much he cared for John, how much he loved him and how much this wasn't just about winning some power play game for him. He didn't want to rush John in any way.

John, it seemed, had other ideas.

Sherlock had always had a feeling that he would be a rather good submissive, despite it going against everything else in his nature. He knew he had a kink about being dominated, being somewhat lacking in experience in the sexual area, and his hunch was confirmed as John took him to task, spinning around and taking control of the kiss, hands suddenly in Sherlock's hair, a very gentle but definite bite on his lower lip. He wasn't sure how, but Sherlock suddenly found himself on the couch, pressed into it as John appeared on top of him, hands on his shoulders as he kissed him hard, holding him down for effect. A hold that Sherlock could easily have broken out of if he wanted to, but he absolutely did not. He could feel John's fingers stroking slightly at his neck, and every now and then John paused, lifting up slightly and just staring at Sherlock as if he couldn't quite believe this was finally happening. It made something deep inside Sherlock tingle, and, when he received the stare for the third time, he reached up a hand and very gently stroked John's face, letting his fingers briefly touch against John's lips.

"I'm here," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

Then John's hands were in Sherlock's hair again, and this time he had turned his attentions to his long neck, nibbling at the skin just below his jaw. Sherlock groaned as John bit gently but firmly, sucking lightly on the skin but enough to elicit another gasp from the younger man. Sherlock was barely aware of what his hands were doing until he felt himself gripping tightly into John's hips, moving them round to rest on his backside as John ground into him suddenly. The feeling was unlike any other Sherlock could remember; their bodies seemed so in sync with each other, moving together even though Sherlock felt like he had no control over any part of him whatsoever. He just seemed to instinctively know what to do, and forced himself to stop over-thinking what was going on, letting John take over completely, knowing he would follow.

John soon returned his lips to Sherlock's, only this time the kisses were a little gentler, but still just exquisite. Sherlock experimented in running his tongue along John's lips, which was obviously appreciated as John moaned and thrust against him again. Sherlock could feel that both of them were slowly growing harder, and John's movements only served to send shivers through his body. He was suddenly desperate to remove more clothing, to really feel John on top of him.

John must have felt a similar way, as he was suddenly up on his feet, grabbing Sherlock's hand and practically dragging him to his bedroom. Once there, John began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, keeping his eyes fixed on him the whole time. Sherlock realised that he was checking that he wasn't moving things too fast for him and, in a show of willingness, Sherlock reached out and tugged at the bottom of John's t-shirt. John smiled and let go of Sherlock, allowing him to pull the top up and over his head.

He allowed himself a few seconds to gaze at John, before quickly finishing the unbuttoning of his own shirt whilst John watched silently. Once removed, John grabbed Sherlock's belt, pulling him closer with it, before deftly undoing both it and the button on his trousers. Hazily, Sherlock reciprocated for John, and before too long they were lying on the bed, Sherlock wrapped in John's arms and legs, lying side by side and gazing at each other, both very aware of the other's nudity but both suddenly seeming a little hesitant.

John inhaled sharply and rubbed his nose lightly against Sherlock's. "Are you sure you want this?" he asked quietly. "You want to... go further than kissing?"

He thought about it - he always considered a question before responding, even if it took approximately half a second to formulate a reply, as it was most of the time. This time it was, if anything, even quicker.

"Definitely."

John ran his hand down Sherlock's arm, interlocking their fingers together, before leaning in and very gently kissing Sherlock on the mouth. As he did so, he moved even closer to Sherlock, if such a thing were possible when one was already completely wrapped up in the other's limbs. The movement caused their erections to rub together and Sherlock practically yelped against John's lips, feeling the grin on his lover's face.

"God, that feels good," John muttered, before using his tongue to suddenly and rather harshly part Sherlock's lips as he rolled him onto his back and straddled him. The proximity now was almost too much for Sherlock and he closed his eyes, concentrating on the feelings and emotions that John was enticing from him. When he felt John's hand move between them, encircling them, Sherlock realised that this was actually happening. They were together, as a couple, closer than Sherlock had ever been to anyone else. John was taking control, bringing them both to the brink, knowing that this was what they both needed. There would be other times to enjoy learning new things, exploring each other. For now, they needed to be together, to express the pent-up emotion and need they had both carried with them for so long. Waiting was no longer an option.

They moved against each other, lips against lips, tongues dancing together, fingers interlocked and hands gripping together, Sherlock's other arm flung across his face as John continued to help them both along. The sensation was bordering on unbearable, and Sherlock knew that his release was not far off. He suddenly panicked that he would repel John, that he would embarrass himself. He didn't know what he was supposed to do, how he was supposed to react. Would he just look ridiculous?

But he didn't worry for long. John caught his eye, and Sherlock gasped at the intensity of the stare that gripped him. Lips slightly parted, John moved into him, his mouth against his ear and he whispered "Let go, Sherlock. Just let go. I'm here."

And with that he did, the force overwhelming him so much that he briefly couldn't see. He was aware of absolutely nothing for a few joyful seconds as his orgasm ripped through him, and as he began to come round, the only thing he noticed was that John was following suit, his body going rigid above him, biting down on Sherlock's shoulder as he came. Sherlock reached down and pulled the cover over the pair of them as John collapsed, sliding off and curling up into Sherlock's side, looking suddenly calm. The detective cast a sleepy eye over him, noting the tiredness was shared as John's eyes fluttered closed and he snuggled into Sherlock's shoulder. Smiling contentedly to himself, Sherlock wrapped his arm around his blogger and drifted off.

* * *

><p>Greg watched in slight bemusement as Sherlock bounded up off the sofa and into the bedroom to find more suitable attire, before turning back to face John, who was already dressed in what he felt was acceptable clothing. The Detective Inspector had just witnessed Sherlock plant a quick but clearly loving kiss on the doctor's head, delighted at the new case that Lestrade had brought them, and John had acted as if nothing odd in the slightest had happened.<p>

"So, you and him...?"

John glanced up at his friend. "Are a couple? Yes, did you not realise that?"

Greg shrugged. "I guess I just didn't quite believe it until I saw it with my own eyes. You two haven't been around much for a couple of weeks."

John smirked despite himself. "Yeah, well. We've been a bit busy."

His friend groaned. "Spare me the details." He paused, thoughtfully, then, unable to help himself, he leaned a little closer to John, who was sat in his armchair, tapping his fingers on the arm. "Although... I have to ask, John. What's he like, as a partner?"

John rolled his eyes. "An absolute pain. He's messy, he's grumpy, he's impatient and quite rude, he steals all the covers in bed, he can be quite inconsiderate and he's a frankly rubbish cook."

"I can hear you, you know," came a deep voice from the bedroom.

John grinned, then winked at the detective inspector, and Greg realised that John had known that they could be heard all along.

"Seriously though," he continued at a much quieter volume. "I don't think I've ever been happier, Greg."

His friend regarded him for a minute, taking that in. It was hard to believe, knowing Sherlock as he did, that he could make anyone happy in a relationship. Everything John had said, he could quite easily believe, and he had a feeling that John wasn't exactly lying when he'd listed all of Sherlock's negative qualities. But, it was abundantly clear that John really was ecstatic, and when Sherlock reappeared a few moments later, it was obvious that Sherlock was just as happy with John. In some odd, ridiculous way, they completely and utterly fit together, and the love between them, though not in the least bit nauseating or over-the-top, was very obvious and beautiful.

As the three of them left the flat, taking the very brief stroll towards Lestrade's car, he grinned to himself as he observed his two mates, walking closely together in front of him, looking every inch the devoted couple. Thank goodness they finally figured it out, he thought.

* * *

><p><strong>And that's it folks. Thank you so much for all the favourites, follows and reviews that this fic has received. Special thanks go to TheVenturer, who is an absolutely brilliant writer herself - please check out her works, they are all excellent. Also many thanks to AntiHeroLydia, serenityofthematrix, codename penguin, leetah evee, lordlottie, Countess Hargreaves and The Professional Gabbygirl for their regular and lovely reviews. And thank you to everyone who has read this, it means so much. Any more reviews you are willing to give will be very gratefully received. I love you all :) x<strong>


End file.
